The Supernatural Edification of Dean Winchester
by overlord-of-the-bees
Summary: Destiel AU based on TV Series "Afterlife". Professor Castiel Novak (MA Berkley, PhD Harvard) is an academic who has staked his credibility upon his ability to decompress and deconstruct the mythology surrounding mediums, clairvoyants and all things "new age spiritualist". That is, until a routine trip with a graduate class brings him into contact with medium Dean Winchester.
1. What a cruel and efficient madness

**The Supernatural Edification of Dean Winchester**

**CHAPTER ONE**

_An extract from the unpublished paper of Professor Castiel Novak _(MA Berkeley, PhD Harvard) _regarding his case study of the medium, E _

_Death – mortality – is the circumstance upon which all information processes are founded. It is the primary preoccupation or the preliminary interest – the force around which human behavior senses direction and from which it is repelled with anti-magnetic force._

_The premise is simple, and undisputed. Finitude offers a realm for meaningful action, and pervades it with urgency to ensure efficiency. This is how the life narrative gains traction – there is little time, and much to achieve._

_Distaste for panic in civilized society means the topic evades common parlance, and so common consciousness; it is dealt with in impulsive fits of basic chemical reaction in the private circumstance the social contract obliges. But it is pervasive, nonetheless, in its influence – motivating copulation, consumption and cheeriness – disguised in a language of want rather than need, that avoids the basic premise that there is an impending end for the sake of temporary emotional stability. The modern workforce is an obvious example of this – a social scenario in which immortality is so well pretended through sixty hour weeks, mindless administration and aimless rat racing, it becomes real in the mind of its beholder._

_Any kind of psychological study recognizes the dangers of such an approach, and much of the modern literature is informed by a desire for transparency – the so-called "ailments" of the 21__st__ century might be resolved, or at least substantially addressed by a clearer dialogue which recognizes death more prominently as a primary motivator for action. In other words, by treating the cause, and not the symptom._

_The modern fascination with psychic phenomena is, on one hand, a welcome departure from this willful blindness. Its adherents are, to their credit, engaging at the most basic level with the modern dilemma of disinterest by reasserting the prominence of death and its associated consequences in social behavior. This is laudatory, in that it is exceptional._

_But to tout this narrow benefit too enthusiastically is to obfuscate the problematic aspects of the practice. For to subscribe to the party tricks of the modern medium, psychic, or magician is in essence to seek the immortality that the modern capitalist does with acquisition of goods and services, or the intellectual does with published discourse, or the canaille does with sexual intercourse. That is, to manifest a flavor of immortality where there is (or at the very least, may not be) none, rather than to confront the possibility of a darker premise._

_And that behavior, like that of those aforementioned, must be contextualized and analyzed in order to avoid the genuine psychological injury that its afflicted incur._

...

"Someone is making themselves known to me. She is... an older woman. Very ... dignified. But young... young at heart."

The blonde girl in the front row of the lecture theatre nodded minutely, and kept her gaze steadily on Castiel as he reached forward into the empty air with light splayed fingers, letting his eyes hood so that his view of the room was restricted to narrow slits. Dramatic flair.

The girl recoiled a little, tracking the movement of his hand carefully, while he continued in an audible whisper.

"She's telling you that you've been involved in some kind of conflict recently. Someone who you had higher expectations of has... betrayed you."

The girl blinked twice, and pressed her heavily glossed lips together, while her index finger ran back and forth across the ragged skin at the edge of a thumbnail – bitten recently, probably against better judgment.

"She says that you're anxious about your future – you wish to make a contribution, but you're not sure how you might go about doing so. Am I right, in saying that?"

The girl fumbled for an answer, and her voice emerged so weakly that only her immediate neighbors heard it. Meeting Castiel's gaze, she flushed, and cleared her throat once, more successful as she managed a louder murmur: "Yes".

Castiel smiled in soft reassurance as he cast his gaze away and drew the class' focus to an empty spot in the room, turning his body with him to carefully place a subconscious indicator of sincerity in the gesture – as though he genuinely were witnessing and speaking to a woman in the corner of his classroom. He inclined his head, like a dog trying to make sense of a high-pitched noise, and continued lightly: "She says you have tremendous potential. You just need to unlock it."

The girl ran her index finger along her nail again, and in her left hand, the pen she had been twirling faltered slightly in its oblong rotations through the air.

"She thinks... she thinks you're torn between two goals. Am I right?"

The girl nodded again, and Castiel rolled his shoulders backwards into a straighter, more authoritative posture, as he turned back to his imaginary partner.

"She says you procrastinate, that you can be disorganized. You need to work on that."

Another girl, beside the blonde girl he was addressing, nudged his subject with her shoulder. The blonde girl turned and met her eyes with an embarrassed smile, and Castiel took the opportunity of the momentary distraction to drop his gaze to her desk, and survey its contents quickly.

"You're an artist aren't you? Singing?"

The girl's eyebrows dropped minutely and Castiel quickly followed with a shake of his head, and a movement of his hand through the empty air, before she could correct him. "No, it's... it's a musical instrument, isn't it? And art. She says you're an artist. You like to draw."

The girl nodded again and beside her, her friend raised her gaze in interest.

"But you feel like... maybe you ought to be responsible. There's someone putting pressure on you, isn't there? She says ignore them. It will turn out alright."

Castiel held his breath for a moment, before dropping his hand abruptly and strolling back to his lectern. As he arrived before the whiteboard behind him, and shuffled his notes, the microphone rustled and he leaned forward to lower the volume, before asking – voice eerily loud in the otherwise silent theatre: "You see how it works?"

The class jostled at the question and the spell of fascination that had hung so magically moments ago was immediately dismissed with a creep of murmurs and shuffles. Castiel waited until they were calm again, only a few painful seconds or so, before resting his elbows on the lectern and announcing: "It's all there. I'm merely bouncing off what I see. My subject-"

He indicated to the blonde girl seated at the front of his classroom, pen poised over a neatly titled ring binder ready for note taking, and she responded – after a beat that indicated his desire for one – with a shaky: "Rachel."

"Yes, Rachel, thank you for your assistance."

He gave a small nod and smile in Rachel's direction, and she flushed deeply before looking back down at her notes.

"Now Rachel was the subject in the past minute of a highly amateur attempt at 'cold reading'".

The class chuckled at Castiel's self-denigration, and he gave them another small smile, while looking down at his notes: "a seemingly miraculous task that almost anyone can perform with enough practice, human awareness and a skill for theatrics."

Rachel shuffled in her seat before him and dropped her head slightly lower, following his words in a messy, loopy script. There was a minute frown on her face as she took her notes and Castiel paused for a moment, surveying her reaction for signs of discomfort at having been the subject of the demonstration. When she looked up again, however, her expression was clear and her head inclined in interest as she awaited the continuation of his lecture. He bristled once, and then continued:

"The basic art of cold reading is to particularize those behaviors that people feel are unique to themselves, but in fact are experienced in common. Where the statements are generic enough, they can seem miraculously insightful. There were two obvious examples of this technique in my demonstration. Can anyone identify one?"

The class was silent for a moment, before a nervous hand raised in the back. Castiel indicated towards his student who, despite her volunteering, pronounced her answer as question: "W-when you said that... Rachel procrastinates?"

Castiel let his hand bob in an expression of assent, before he turned back to his students. "Exactly..."

"Madison." The girl volunteered, her face suddenly elated with the prospect of having pleased her lecturer. She eagerly leaned back to her own notebook, and commenced scribbling frantic notes.

Castiel watched on in approval for a moment, before turning back to the class. "Procrastination, laziness, low self-esteem are all fairly obvious examples to begin with, but they are effective. For instance, how many of you would have felt I had struck a nerve had I directed that accusation at them?"

Around 90% of the class eagerly raised their hands, although a few stubborn students at the back of the theatre did not (or perhaps, their owners had been otherwise engaged at the time of the question), and one eager looking student kept her hand rigid at her desk. Castiel raised an eyebrow: "I expect those who have not raised their hands to be my best students this semester."

There was a titter throughout the class, and Castiel looked back down at his lectern for a moment, surveying the list of his students and their ID pictures before him. He noted Madison's name about halfway down, and the grainy image to be used for her identification. "And can anyone tell me the other obvious commonality?"

There was a careful silence this time, and even the preppy students at the front stayed silent. Castiel surveyed the class quickly, before relieving them of their suffering, by answering himself. "The second is the object of the vision itself. An older female. Acquaintance with an older woman is virtually universal – a grandparent or elderly family friend, a head mistress, a neighbor. The list goes on..."

Silence fell as students leaned forward to carefully copy his list in hurried handwriting.

"The more advanced the cold reading, the more narrow the assumptions that can be made. By gender, or age demographic, for serve to dispel the allegation of generality in reading, and vouch for its legitimacy."

He advanced out from behind his lectern, leaning against it with one hand and looking out towards his class.

"There was an example of this kind of assumption, in my performance. Can anyone identify what it was?"

The class stared aimlessly until he conceded, with a squint: "The demographic I identified you as was first year college students, who left the secondary education system as recently as six months ago. Does that assist?"

A hand raised at the back of the class. Castiel gestured towards it and raised his eyebrows: "Yes?"

The boy cleared his throat slightly, and pressed his lips together once, before asking: "the part where you were saying that Rachel... she's not sure what she's doing with her life... that there's pressure..."

He trailed off at the sound of a few murmurs and the turn of several heads to stare at him.

Castiel attracted their attention back to him, with a movement out in front of the lectern and a raised voice. "Exactly. That kind of uncertainty is naturally compounded in a tertiary setting. It would be highly unusual for any of you not to feel lost or directionless at some stage. Thank you –"

"Garth," the boy supplied quickly. Castiel smiled and moved on quickly, crossing to the other side of the lecture theatre.

"Do we have another example from over here?"

His students at once turned their gazes to their books, and feigned writing notes to avoid attracting his attention. He waited only a moment, before looking back out the class.

There were a few moments of silence, until Rachel herself raised her hand and spoke up. "When you said that someone had betrayed me."

"Exactly."

Castiel gestured to her with a nod, and turned his gaze to the back rows of the class. It was an astute observation – one he hadn't been certain the class might have pinpointed – and he was pleased.

"Having only recently exited the veritable social pressure cooker that is secondary education, it's not a stretch to assume that many of you are carrying resentment, frustration, or at least bad memories of one of your peers."

A few students shook their heads at that, but Castiel merely shrugged and progressed forward towards Rachel.

"Of course, you are each unique individuals and you cannot simply be reduced to typical aspects of your age, gender and social background. And that is where the most astute cold readers will turn to rely on more minute visual cues - things like dress, manner, body language and so on."

He reached forward towards Rachel softly, and indicated to her notepad. "May I?"

She cast her eyes downward at her desk, and flushed immediately, before conceding to pass it to him without meeting his gaze.

"An efficient cold reader will hunt for a subject – some are more readable than others. Rachel was my chosen subject because she provided so many obvious clues."

He raised her ringbinder to show the class, gesturing vaguely at its interior. "You see how beautifully Rachel has illustrated the margins of her notepad?" There were a few titters as the class cottoned on and Rachel hung her head. He handed it back to her with a kind smile. "Not to worry, Rachel. I would surely have done the same through..." His eyes flicked to the heading on the adorned page "ECON that I could rather easily derive that Rachel has an artistic flair."

The class jumped at his explanation, and at once set to scribbling. Castiel then moved his hands to the other side of notebook, where Rachel's class timetable was visible. "Equally, from my vantage point at the front of this lecture, I could easily see Rachel's class timetable, which states that she is enrolled in a jazz performance paper this semester. From that, I imputed that Rachel is a talented singer or instrumentalist, as this University's jazz programme is most selective in its applicants. Now-"

Rachel blushed even more furiously as he handed back her ringbinder, but the compliment gave her enough cause to meet his gaze and he nodded his head in thanks. Castiel spared her any further attention by moving back to the lectern, retrieving a small remote control from its surface and clicking it once to activate the powerpoint presentation for the ensuing lecture. Behind him, upon the pull-down screen, a white slide appeared, adorned with an image of a crone with warty Disneyesque features staring into a crystal ball and a title declaring the class to be PYSCH100: Psychology of Superstition and Mysticism. A few laughs arose at the picture, and Castiel shared in the joke for a moment, before waiting for silence. It fell quickly, beneath his blank gaze, and he stood with one hand on the lectern as he looked out at the class:

"Even an amateur cold reading, made with enough sincerity, can enfranchise the subject sufficiently with the supposed psychic to give rise to a genuine belief that the experience is a spiritual one. I am sure you can imagine that, with sufficient experience, a skilled cold reader might be remarkably persuasive. Much more so than I was, in this instance"

The class hummed in agreement, and continued their notetaking.

"Even more formidable are those that employ 'hot reading' techniques. These are where the 'psychic' gathers information on the subject of the reading before the encounter, and uses them as a springboard to create a ploy."

The class continued scribbling furiously, and at the front, Rachel kept her head down, letting her bright blonde hair spill across her textbook and curtain her face from him.

"Even for the lesser skilled readers, however, there is still capacity to employ such techniques to great effect. For, at the end of the day, the possibility of an afterlife – which all such readers represent – is a truth almost universally desired. And one that any subject of a reading will be only too willing to believe."

Another young woman at the back who had precociously introduced herself to Castiel prior the commencement of the lecture as Naomi White, raised her hand, but didn't wait for his permission before she asked: "Sir, are you rejecting the notion of life after death?"

Castiel frowned and stared up at her, where she cocked her eyebrow in challenge. Castiel was hardly ruffled, used to her high-school-debating-champion-type and well rehearsed in dismissing such queries.

"Certainly, I would not deny anyone their beliefs. But that is simply what they are – beliefs, not facts. And while no man could seek to postulate the true nature of things – at least, not yet – that is not to say that certain untruths ought not to be dispelled, and _that _is the subject of this course."

She met his gaze for a few more seconds, before surrendering and dropping her gaze back to her desk. Beside her, a friend leaned over and commenced whispering in her ear.

"The susceptibility of the human mind to imagining mystic experience is one of its greatest weaknesses and also one of its greatest strengths. And this is what we will be looking at over the course of the semester – the psychology of belief."

Castiel pressed at the small remote in his hand, and the powerpoint screen at once flashed to the first of several substantive slides, with which he intended to conclude the first lecture: "The Inception of Belief?"

The class kept their heads down for the rest of the lesson, and Castiel was treated to a fitful kind of silence as they scrabbled to absorb the voluminous content of the introductory lecture, and even greater, the implications with which he had left them to contemplate.

...

"I hear you alienated another classroom today?"

Castiel didn't bother to slow down as "Meg Masters, PhD" (as she preferred to introduce herself, at least when in bars with a glass of red wine dangling out of one hand) hurried down the hall after him. While the joke was pronounced in her unusual lazy drawl, Castiel took no offence, registering the light note of teasing that accompanied it.

As such, he answered mildly, even as Meg caught up, and bumped their arms together in greeting: "It was the same an introduction as any other year." He ploughed onwards through the throngs of students milling between classes, sparing minimal sympathy to whatever aches plagued the balls of Meg's feet encased within four inch stiletto boots.

"Keep an 'open mind' and remember there's a forty percent fail rate?"

"Yes." Castiel shrugged his shoulder to slide the leather satchel he carried with him into a more comfortable position on his shoulder.

Meg smacked her lips together, and smirked, in a way that might have been perceived as sexually aggressive to anyone other than a long time friend and academic colleague: "the same introduction that results in a twenty percent drop out rate?"

Castiel blinked: "The class is always oversubscribed – cruelty is an administrative necessity. Aside from the fact that such fickleness is only demonstrative that those students are not ready to engage in the perils of the major."

Meg hummed out a single note of amusement, before inclining her head towards Castiel with a grin. "That's not what they say in the coffee lounge."

Castiel shrugged, unfazed, and raised a hand to brush at his nose lightly. "My graduate class is still the most popular and competitive programme. My colleagues' concerns are unwarranted."

"They're not concerns, Clarence."

They arrived at the door to Castiel's office, where his name was adorned atop the mahogany in a golden font. It was a pretentious affectation he knew well the University could not afford, but maintained in the vain hope that students might confuse interior grandeur with the academic prominence of the institution. As he reached for the doorknob, Meg slid across the wood, and crossed her leather-jacketed arms across her chest (a dress code oversight that no one in the department had had the nerve to correct).

"Dinner tonight? I have a ten year old whiskey I fancy a shot at?"

Castiel adjusted the satchel against his shoulder again, and shook his head lightly. Meg rolled her eyes before he even pronounced the answer. "Not tonight, I'm taking a grad class to a performance."

When he reached for the doorknob again, Meg was kind enough to move away, but she leaned into Castiel with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. "Performance, huh? So much for academic impartiality."

She winked as she turned, without waiting for an answer, and sauntered down the corridor. Castiel watched blithely as her gaze attracted the impudent attention of the majority of the male student populace. As more students turned to watch her exit, the sway of her hips became more significant. And when she turned a challenging glare on her nearest victim, he dropped the massive pile of textbooks he had been carrying on the floor.

Castiel smiled slightly and shook his head to himself, pushing his door open as far as it would go (battling on the other side a poorly placed bookcase which he had crammed into the office, despite Meg's recommendation to the contrary). He promptly shut it behind him, demonstrating for any waiting students that he was not yet in the mood for office hour and taking solace in the mercy of a quiet, empty space.

Castiel settled himself at his desk, only stopping to shrug off his trenchcoat and hang it on the chair behind him. With a sigh, he reclined back in his chair, and waited while his laptop loaded the homepage of the University's learning portal with a light, effortful buzz that marked its age. When it eventually conceded to his whims, he made his way to the appropriate course folder, where his graduate students for PSCH786 had diligently uploaded their preliminary literature reviews for the semester. He twisted his neck once, letting loose a small pop near the base, before downloading the bundle and proceeding through each with the ruthless marking efficiency that characterized his teaching and, his colleagues said, his academic work. He worked for two hours straight, until the documents were a sufficient blur of red corrections (barring one or two favorites, in which he declared his pleasure with an abrupt "Well Done" and a mark in the low nineties).

The corridors were still full of students departing their 5pm-6pm lectures when he left his office and made his way to the exit. The light of the day was fading, however, as he crossed the footpaths and grassy parcels that made up the campus, and settled himself in the lone open coffee shop on its periphery. A few students stared as he ordered a toasted sandwich for his meal, and seated himself in the couches beside a group who were carrying out some kind of study session regarding the German language. They lowered their voices for the duration of his visit, during which time he stared mindlessly at a tattered magazine in which Kate Middleton's wedding dress was still the subject of speculation, and bolted down his dinner in silence.

At 6.45pm he commenced the short ten minute walk to a small community theatre, beside a bustling Greek restaurant adorned with blue and white checkered curtains. The sign at the theatre proclaimed the opportunity for bypassers to: "Converse with your spirit guide: an educational and spiritual seminar for the new age believer". A few of his graduate students were already gathered at the entrance, and they greeted him with waves and warm calls of "Hey Professor!"

Castiel and his students made uncomfortable small talk while they waited out the arrival of the latecomers: "Did you see the game last weekend, Professor Novak?"

"No, I did not."

"Aw shame, it was a doozy."

The final latecomers arrived clutching textbooks to their chests, and sweating slightly. "So sorry, Professor. A tutorial ran overtime." Castiel gave a brief nod of acceptance for the explanation, and inclined his head to direct his students to the entrance hall of the theatre. They joined a line leading to a cardiganed old woman, with chronically trembling fingers, who painstakingly added each payment of $30 cash to a small plastic box and passed each guest a raffle ticket torn from a small green book as a token of admission.

Behind him, Castiel's students shuffled, and remained in relative silence. The rest of the crowd though was fairly animated, and obviously well-acquainted with one another.

"Dolores! It's lovely to see you again."

Two middle-aged woman pushed in front of Castiel to exchange a hug and a quick smile.

"It's been so long! Wonderful to see you."

One woman fanned herself with a programme, across the front of which the face of a moustached man with gold rimmed glasses was emblazoned. He was leaning against his hand, staring contemplatively at the camera, while the title below his name proclaimed: "Michael Spyve. Psychic Medium."

"I was wondering if I might see you here."

"Well you know I wouldn't miss Michael! I saw him two years ago and he was just... oh just wonderful."

One of Castiel's students sidled up beside him. "Professor, are we allowed to take notes?"

The women's gazes turned to Castiel and their conversation was broken momentarily by a quick survey. Castiel shook his head and fiddled with his wallet. "I think it best if we just observe, Hester. I won't be expecting any great amount of detail in your reflections essay on this."

Hester accepted the answer without challenge, and quickly moved to pass the message down the line of students, some of whom quickly slid notebooks and tablets back into their bags.

The cardiganed woman took a grand total of five minutes to process their individual payments for the session, and seemed almost exhausted when the final student – Bartholemew – was processed. With a finger to his lips and a raised eyebrow, Castiel lead the group into the hall and to a set of seats situated comfortably near the back. The theatre was only a quarter-full, and so their arrival en masse attracted a few interested gazes.

The class observed quietly as the audience tittered through a few watchful minutes while the stage remained vacant. Eventually, the cardiganed woman proceeded from the back of the theatre, tapping at the top of a cordless microphone. She made her way to the front, before moving into the wings of the stage curtains and calling out: "Fred, can you help me please?"

There were a few awkward moments as the contraption was decoded, turned on, and the conversation behind the curtains became audible:

"Are we ready to go? Michael?"

"Oh hold on, he's just got to turn off his mobile phone."

There was the sound of a few shuffles, and weak older woman's voice: "Can I get you anything, dear?"

A lower, male voice rumbled an answer: "...a glass of water? If that's alright?"

The woman holding the microphone shuffled again, and there were a few footsteps. "I'll just get Michael on stage and then I'll be right with you."

The sound of the microphone changing hands clattered through the auditorium, and there was a bated pause. A man's voice echoed throughout the theatre. "Are we ready to go?"

"Yes, yes. Off you go."

There was a shuffle, and then a clearing of the throat. And then, with a bright smile, the moustached man from the programme took his place before the auditorium, with a wave. "Good evening everybody! Thank you so much for being here tonight."

The audience clapped enthusiastically and the man before them took several bows, grinning and chortling at the audience. A few of Castiel's students rolled their eyes and leaned back in their seats, arms crossed. Castiel himself sat ramrod straight, and kept his own derision circumspect. Though, that said, it was a tough thing.

...

"He's talking to someone in this area... he's saying something about a car... needing a service... or a warrant that's coming up. Something like that?... is that you? Someone recently passed away, left you a car and you're worried about it...?"

A woman wearing a tough looking knitted sweater, seated just in front of Castiel, raised her hand. As she did so, her spine straightened, and she adjusted hastily in the seat.

"Sell it, he says. Get the worry of your chest. Now..."

The moustached man paused for a moment before wandering to the other side of the stage with a bright smile: "Someone here, in this area, there's a man here who wants to speak with you. He... passed away from an illness recently."

The man grinned a row of wide yellow teeth as another middle-aged woman, dabbing at her eyes, raised her hand and nodded softly.

"He's saying it was quite a short illness, wasn't it?"

There was a pause, and then the woman shook her head. "N-no... six months."

The man immediately followed her statement with an enthusiastic nod and a wide arcing gesture of his hand. "Of course, of course. Yes, yes he's saying that. Of course, time means so little on the Other Side. He's saying it _felt _fast."

Beside Castiel, a student – Inias – snorted, and while Castiel turned his gaze to offer a brief reprimand, Inias only shrugged and rolled his eyes, mouthing "come on". A few other students smirked at that, and Castiel inclined his head meaningfully towards the front of the theatre – expression implacable.

"He's saying he's no longer suffering, and he needs you to let go, my love, he's at peace now."

The woman nodded again and her shoulders started to shake lightly with the effort of repressed emotion. The man stepped backwards on the stage and closed his eyes, sighing a few times before smacking his lips. "Well... I'm afraid that's all I have for you tonight."

The crowd burst into applause and beside him, Castiel's students unenthusiastically tapped the tips of their fingers against their palms, while a few took to the opportunity to check their mobile phones, or apply lip balms. Castiel only sniffed lightly, and readied himself for the next performer, adjusting himself in his seat and pulling at his tie to loosen it a little around his neck.

The moustached man gave a few bows and thankful nods, before he raised his hand and gestured for silence.

"Now, the next medium is new to this event, and he's not so well-known to you as I am. But he's certainly very promising, and he's made some waves in our little community recently."

The man looked to the side of the stage, before nodding and turning back to the audience, with a beaming smile.

"Will you welcome please, Dean Winchester."

The applause for the new medium was much more polite and petered out quickly, so that "Dean Winchester", when he emerged from behind the curtains of the stage was forced to walk in silence its centre. As he took the microphone from the moustached man, the transfer was audible throughout the theatre, and Dean briefly looked out the audience with a slight trembling smile, before dropping his gaze back to the floor and rubbing at his nose absently.

He wasn't at all the usual kind of recruit to these events, and that was enough to stir Castiel's interest from an otherwise bored state. In particular, his youth was entirely unexpected – late twenties at most. Most "mediums" that Castiel had come across were well into middle age, and often retirees with plenty of time to amuse themselves. In fact, he didn't believe he had ever seen one so young. His costuming was an oddity too. While most mediums tended to dress in loose-fitting and wildly patterned clothing, his clothing was something that would be more fitting in a southern bar – tattered (seemingly not for the purposes of fashion) jeans and sturdy walking shoes, a plaid shirt over a tight t-shirt and a slightly oversized and painfully well-worn leather jacket. Around the man's neck was the only accessory slightly symptomatic of his profession – a leather thong which suspended a bronze god-like head.

Perhaps most interesting to Castiel was that Dean Winchester was, objectively speaking, rather beautiful. Homeliness, Castiel had come to find, had generally trounced comeliness in the medium profession. He had hypothesized as to why, though there was no obvious reason except the possibility that the profession's audience associated motherliness with trustworthiness.

There was nothing homely about Dean's face, however – with high cheekbones, large eyes and a remarkably defined mouth, he might have appeared better at home fronting a watch campaign. Beside him, Inias stirred again, and batted another student – Anna Milton – lightly on the arm. She didn't appear to notice Castiel's gaze upon her when she giggled and whispered provocatively: "Just because he's a nutcase, doesn't mean I can't think he's hot."

Before them, the man shuffled, adjusted broad shoulders and stuffing a free hand into his pocket. Raising the microphone to his mouth, he cleared his throat, and jumped when the sound was projected into the room. A few titters echoed around the empty space, and Dean sniffed once, rubbing the back of his neck (with the microphone in hand) before breathing deeply and looking up to meet the gaze of the room – a suddenly concerted and flirtatious grin creeping across his face.

At the wave of confidence, the crowed relaxed, and Dean's grin grew so that his right eye crinkled at its edges.

"Hi everyone... I'm Dean. I'm... an Aquarius. I enjoy sunsets, long walks on the beach, and frisky women."

He eyeballed a woman in the front row and the crowd laughed a little louder. Ice broken, Dean bit his lip and maneuvered his face back into a serious expression.

"I'm, uh, never really sure how to start these except to just kind of... stand here, until something happens. Sometimes it happens, sometimes it doesn't. I'm just... I'm not in control in this kind of thing. They are..."

While he spoke, Dean turned his gaze back to the floor and began to pace – scratching lightly at his ear. Despite his temporarily confident demeanor, he rushed his words out in an uncertain hurry and he bounced on the balls of his feet. He looked up once as he strolled, gaze moving out across the audience: "Can't guarantee I'm not going to disappoint you tonight, I-"

He stopped suddenly and his gaze caught on a spot directly in front of him. Curious, a few audience members turned to study the space, but yielded when there was nothing to see there.

Dean – still fixed on the spot and moving as though through custard - raised a hand to his head and began to run his fingers through his hair.

The first few times, he kept his fingers tight to his scalp, but as he continued the strokes become longer, until he was pulling at invisible strands that reached down past his shoulders and twirling them at the ends. His mouth hung open and his eyes were wide and focused, until eventually an expression of recognition passed across his face and he nodded imperceptibly. At once, he was broken from the spell and he looked to the audience, where his gaze zoned in on a blonde ponytailed woman, who clutched anxiously at her purse and stiffened when Dean's eyes fell upon her.

Dean smiled, and repeated the gesture enthusiastically, a small open mouthed grin adorning his face in a crooked kind of way. His eyebrows raised meaningfully as he gestured, turning his head a little to the right so that the woman could better see the action he repeated – moving his fingers down over his ears and running them through mid-air till they ceased midway down his chest.

Suddenly, the route of his fingers changed and Dean's eyes followed them with an expression of confusion, as they begin writing out a word in the face of the woman.

"Mm- Ma- May 15. That's... it's written over your head. Does that, does that make sense to you, m'am?"

The woman at once shuddered and commenced hyperventilating. Dean's expression dropped and he nodded once, keeping his eyes fixed on the same spot.

"There's a little girl here, m'am. She's uh-" Dean hurried out his next words, as though there were a time limit: "She's stroking her hair for me and..."

He started pulling at his imaginary strands more urgently and smiling in a way that made the corner of his mouth twitch."It's long and blonde… yes, very beautiful... and she's saying she wanted to show you that it got better and you don't need to worry. She's... uh, she's clipping some things in it. They're glittery, kind of pink... I don't know what you call them, uh..."

He commenced stroking his head again, although slowing this time, and his expression twisted so he was beaming at the empty space.

"She's not alone. Don't worry. She's very loved... yes, yes... thank you... yes, alright."

He smiled as though in farewell, and his eyes left the space, without even returning to the crying woman and zoned in on another woman, this time sitting in front of him. He moved forward into her space quickly, dropping lower to that they were eye to eye, and staring.

"Joo... no, Jame-... no, no it _is _Judah... Judah. Does that make sense?"

As with the first woman, the woman in front of him started in recognition and froze before Dean, her shaky breaths audible to the entire auditorium as a result of her proximity to the microphone. Dean continued unperturbed, a slow smile creeping across his face again, this one sitting more naturally: "He's... sitting beside you, m'am, and his hand on yours... he's squeezing really really tight, uh... he's saying thank you for what you did... in the hospital... really loved that... thank you...and he was... yes, look- look- under the house. You've been looking for it, he says. You'll find it – don't worry... he's kept it safe..."

Castiel watched the way, through the small sliver of his sightline behind the other audience member's heads, the woman tensed her hand around a phantom touch and nodded urgently.

"Yes. Thank you. Thank you." Dean's voice became suddenly harried and breathy, and his gaze moved to the aisle beside Castiel. They fixated on a point right beside him, and dropped, before shifting to Castiel. Castiel quickly looked away, and swallowed, reaching into his trenchcoat and pulling out a mobile phone to type out a nonsense message against its keys. When he looked up, Dean had moved on and was surveying the faces of the audience carefully. His gaze passed across Castiel again, but unlike previously there was no fixation, and he continued across several more faces before his attention fell upon Anna.

"You there... with the red hair..." Anna jumped as she suddenly bore the brunt of Dean's attention, having been otherwise occupied with her cuticles. At her wide eyes and sudden stiffness, Dean quickly hurried into his explanation, as though sensing her reluctance to hear it: "There's a woman here, asking me to talk to 'the one that looks like an angel'... She's, uh, wearing a long white coat and she's got sort of... shoulder length brown hair..."

He moved his hands to his neck to mark the length with a cutting motion, just as Anna shook her head. Dean's brow furrowed momentarily and his eyes seemed to go in and out of focus as he stared at her, while she bit her lip and crossed her arms.

"No? Uh... she's standing behind you... there's a strong smell, really strong... it's some sort of flower... lavender, I think? Really really strong..."

Anna shook her head again firmly, rolling her shoulders back and sitting up a little straighter.

"No?... Uh, she's nodding though... her hand is on your shoulder and... she's sad. Just... so much... sadness. I can't quite... no, sorry."

When Anna pursed her lips, Dean held up his hand in apology. He quickly moved to scanning the audience again, and eventually his gaze fell and he inclined his head to the side – as though listening to a person positioned there. After a few seconds, he raised a slightly trembling hand, pointing to a man in the audience: "Yes, uh... you, sir-"

Sparing the performance momentarily, Castiel turned to glance at Anna, who hastily removed a scarf she had draped artfully around her neck and wrapped it around herself. When she failed to feel the force of his gaze, Castiel tapped Inias on the shoulder, and inclined his head to Anna. Inias quickly shook her, and pointed to Castiel. Anna, blushing, turned to them both.

"Are you alright?" Castiel mouthed at her. She gave him a quick smile and a shrug, before turning quickly back to watch Dean. She hunched slightly, and a curtain of red hair fell between them. Castiel watched for a few moments, before Inias' gaze turned to his in question. Quickly, he refocused on the stage where Dean, having temporarily fallen silent, stood with a finger hanging off his lips. His gaze was focused and determined, and he seemed almost ignorant of the fact that, after several moments of silence, his hand moved from his mouth to his scalp and recommenced stroking through imaginary strands of hair.

...

"He was novel, certainly, in his demeanor. But beneath it all, it was the same old routine. Take 'look under the house' as an example. What family doesn't have an heirloom or treasure that has somehow been lost? It sounds so specific it must be real. But under the house could be applied generally – under stairs, a basement, in a low-lying shelf, where any manner of long-forgotten object might be found. The failure to particularize what it might be is key."

The day following the graduate field trip, the class was assembled in a small tutorial room, staring enraptured at their professor, as he summarized the previous night's events.

"When a person is affected by desperation, whether that be one of grief of a generalized existential worry, it's easy to excuse the lack of specificity in a 'spirit's' message if it offers temporary solace. Any medium relies on this kind of ready emotional availability – their subjects are carefully chosen to ensure their susceptibility. You may have noticed the fact that many of Dean's targets were already emotional, before he even identified them."

A few students nodded dutifully and continued their writing. Castiel's gaze flickered to Anna, who kept her head down, and he cleared his throat.

"It is not uncommon for those having recently been bereaved to believe they have had ... _experiences_. Smells, sounds, movements out of the corner of their eye. I'm sure we have all partaken in such confusion at one time or another."

A few more of the class nodded.

"The fact is that it's certainly easier for any manner of person to attribute that experience to something divine or supernatural – however you would prefer to think of it – rather than fallible human experience through sensory perception. For recognizing the latter reminds us of the fallibility of our bodies themselves, which leads to death, which is obviously a reality we would all prefer to forget."

The class hummed in agreement at Castiel's frankness. His gaze flickered up to the back of the class where the minutes hand ticked closer to the end of the lesson – 2pm – and he stood from where he had been leaning on his desk and surveyed the group.

"Your first critical essay is due next week. I'd like you to use last nights' experiences as a case study in a critical examination of Hosking's chapter in _The Cognition of Deception_. The word limit is 3,000. You can provide them to me at the end of next Friday's tutorial."

His students pulled out various diaries or tablets to note his requirements, before hurrying to pack their belongings. While most stopped to thank him, or at least offer a smile, they were quick to leave and depart from whatever activity they had chosen to unwind after Castiel's vigorous tutorial.

"Anna?"

Castiel called out lightly above the din as his students shuffled out. Anna looked up, from where she was still sitting, making a few notes in the margin of an already full page. "One moment, please?"

Anna paused for a moment, then nodded quickly, pulling together her books and cramming them into a large black leather handbag. As the door clicked shut with the last departing student (although Inias hovered beyond it, clearly waiting for Anna), she made her way to his desk and stood, bouncing on her toes.

Castiel considered her for a moment, before asking mildly: "I hope you were not too distressed by last night's events."

Anna laughed, but hastily moved to brush a strand of hair behind her ear.

"No, no. It's all fake, right? Just a good act..."

Castiel nodded and gave her a light smile. "Exactly. I apologize that you were subject to the experience nonetheless – I had hoped that our being positioned so far back might have excused involvement."

"No, no, it was fine." Anna's voice was light, but unusually high, as she dropped her gaze to a few plaited leather braids on her wrist, which she began to rub at absently.

Castiel's brow furrowed as he waited out the pregnant pause and for Anna to stop in her aggravated fiddling. However, she didn't move to meet his gaze again and her silence was quickly enough to press him further.

"Forgive me, but it appears to me that things are not necessarily 'fine'. I would hope, if the experience made you uncomfortable, you would share with me. If that is the case, I would unlikely be inclined take any further classes to such an event."

Anna's shoulders rolled forward into a hunch, and she shook her head quickly.

"No, I mean... it wasn't that. That you took us, I mean. I just..."

She brought her hand to her mouth and sniffed, turning away from him again as her lips twisted into a grimace.

"Anna?"

Castiel leaned forward from his desk – torn between moving to comfort her, and overstepping any boundaries in the enclosed space of his classroom. Anna waved him off in any event, and looked up quickly to meet his eyes. "It's just... I know who he was talking about."

Castiel felt his mouth drop open in surprise and a light burst of adrenalin pulse up his arms. Anna's eyes quickly tracked the expression of his face. She was quick.

"What do you mean?" Castiel kept his voice carefully even. Anna bit her lip, before she dropped her gaze to her leather handbag, where her bedazzled nails clawed through a mess of disorganized items. Eventually, she extracted a wallet and from it, pulled a tattered photograph.

"May I?"

Anna nodded and extended the photograph to Castiel, which he took and examined carefully.

"She's my mother," she added softly, as he fingered at the rumpled thing. The woman depicted in the image _was_ of the medium's description from the previous night. Pale and poised, with a short brown bob cut and garbed in a luxuriant white coat.

"She _is_?"

Anna blushed and looked away quickly, bringing her fingers to her mouth and gnawing at a cuticle. "No. I mean, she was. She's dead."

Castiel raised his eyes from the photograph to look at Anna, who hurriedly dropped her hand from her mouth and instead looked to her wrist, recommencing her worrying at her collection of bracelets.

"I apologize."

Anna shrugged and stared at her jewellery."When I was six, she was diagnosed with terminal cancer. She didn't want to suffer. And my father... he didn't want to live without her. On Christmas Eve, they took us to the car. They said we were going to go see the carol singers."

She made a small noise in her throat and moved her hand to rub at the tip of her nose.

"My father started the car, but we stayed put. There were carolers walking up and down the street – literally past us."

She sighed and looked up to meet Castiel's eyes.

"They'd... connected the exhaust pipe to the window and... everyone just kind of... fell asleep. When my mother stopped answering me, I started screaming and beating the windows."

"_Anna_."

Castiel ignored propriety in quickly crossing the room, letting his hand drop lightly onto Anna's shoulder. She was thin, and the end of her collarbone jutted out from her shoulder; Castiel could feel it, even beneath the thick knit she wore.

Anna's eyes shone, but she held back the tears well.

"I am sorry that memory was summoned for you, Anna. If I had known..."

"No. No. It's fine. I mean, it was my fault. When he started talking...I thought...you can see her picture in my wallet when I open it. I opened it at the entrance, to pay. I figured there had been a plant."

Castiel nodded, sighing, and moved his hand away from her.

"Exactly, it was merely an-"

"But that's not all."

Her eyes widened as she turned to Castiel, gritting her teeth.

"The lavender... I-"

She dropped her head and stared at the ground, breathing out carefully before continuing: "She loved it. Like... there were bottles of it just all over the house. She'd spray it on our pillows, and she had this perfume... I mean, I get that he saw the photograph, but... how could he have known..."

Castiel stepped backwards, and shook his head.

"It's impossible to say exactly. There are ways and means. Maybe he-"

"I'm going to see him. Tomorrow."

She stole a look at Castiel before turning away.

"Anna, I'm not sure..."

She raised a hand to stop him and rubbed her lips together.

"I don't care. I just need to. I need to understand what's happening. How he knew that. It's not... I just have to know." Her tone was firm, and she crossed her arms before looking back at Castiel with a determined glare.

Castiel withdrew carefully, with an acquiescent nod. "Please. Just... exercise caution."

She breathed out a laugh, as though relieved, and rolled her eyes – suddenly elated. "I will, I'm not a complete quack, you know."

...

Despite Anna's reluctance, Castiel managed to wrangle the medium's address from her, and he made his way to that same residence first thing the next morning. The house was in the centre of the suburbs – a terrace block sandwiched between identical structures. And claustrophobic looking, even from the street. The front yard was little more than an unkempt patch of grass, though those around the house had done better with small rose bushes or hedges. In its centre an old decrepit bird fountain filled to the brim with the winter's rainwater and tarnished green with algae.

Castiel knocked at the peeling door softly at first. But when there was no answer, he was more vigorous, ceasing only when he eventually detected movement from the second storey behind the curtains.

Eventually, he heard the pad of feet up the hallway of the house, and stepped back to allow space on the miniscule porch for the door to swing open. There was a delay of half a minute or so, however, as the man inside within fiddled with safety locks. When the door eventually opened, Castiel breathed a sigh of relief to see Dean Winchester on the other side – garbed in nothing more than a grey T-shirt and a pair of rather overloved briefs that hung loose around his thighs. The explanation for the delay was obvious, as Castiel saw four separate locks that were installed on the door and in the doorway.

He summoned up a smile, even though he was met with a steely frown and a cool stare.

"Hello Dean."

Dean Winchester only squinted in response and pursed his lips.

"I know you."

There was something vaguely scathing to the Dean's voice, but it was hidden beneath and emotionless layer of gravel and a carefully metered cadence.

"How is that?"

Dean ignored Castiel in favor of turning and walking up the corridor back to his kitchen, leaving the door wide open. Castiel paused at the threshold, watching Dean's passage with curiosity. Dean disappeared into another room, and for a moment Castiel contemplated that the conversation was done, before he heard Dean's call: "You were at my reading on Thursday."

That seemed invitation enough, and Castiel quickly shucked off his shoes and trenchcoat, hanging it awkwardly over his arm when he noted the absence of a coat rack. Instead, the entrance hall was utterly bare and bereft of occupation, aside from two broken umbrellas that had fallen from their perch in the corner, and a musty looking set of boots stuffed with clearly used socks.

By the time he had shuffled to the kitchen, Dean had commenced boiling the kettle. Castiel hovered awkwardly in the doorway arms folded, while Dean bustled, not looking at him. He had not bothered to add any trousers to his ensemble.

"Felt quite hostile, in that part of the room."

The gap in conversation made the phrase seem out of place at first, and it was only with a squint and a held breath that Castiel's mind quickly supplied the connection for him. His fingers twitched from where they were tucked at his arm, and he cleared his throat, before continuing lightly: "I understand you have arranged a meeting with Anna Milton."

"Yeah." Dean turned upon Castiel quite unexpectedly, and surveyed his face quickly. Whatever expression he found there seemed to displease him, for his jaw twitched with a grit of his teeth. "What are you – her father?" And then, his voice abruptly changed to a polite tone: "Milk?"

When Castiel paused – confused by the quick change of temperament – Dean sighed with aggravation and held up a carton, wiggling its base for Castiel's benefit. At his raised eyebrow and irritated manner, Castiel stuttered in his answer: "For what.?"

Dean shrugged and murmured to himself, before turning back and busying himself in two messy cupboards. He completed his search quickly, and extracted a dusty pot labeled "Coffee" and an even dustier box of teabags. He held both up, and Castiel pointed to the tea awkwardly. Dean tutted at that, and turned to deposit one in a chipped mug.

Castiel swallowed quickly, and followed up Dean's silence with a barely contained jibe: "I might have thought you would have known my relation to her."

Dean rolled his eyes again within Castiel's vision, and pulled the kettle off the element (before it had commenced whistling) and poured Castiel's drink.

"That's not how it works, man."

"I see."

Dean reached for the milk again, and held it up to Castiel's gaze. Castiel shook his head, and Dean deposited it back on the counter, before advancing towards him – mug in hand. He passed it to Castiel roughly, before inclining his head to a messy table in the centre of the room, heaped mountainously with old newspapers and rough-looking magazines.

Castiel sat down slowly, testing the strength of the chair before him before committing to it. Dean, on the other hand, thumped down confidently and sighed in relief.

Castiel held onto his mug, with nowhere on the table clear to deposit it. There was a pause before Dean, with his eyes cast downward, he reached across the table and swiped a few unwashed dishes to the side, leaving Castiel a free patch. Castiel quickly placed the mug there and twirled the teaspoon dropped inside it, watching as the tea bag leaked amber coloring into the water.

When Castiel looked to Dean for a further comment, Dean only arched an eyebrow and leaned back obnoxiously in his seat, crossing his arms tightly across his chest. Castiel cleared his throat, and kept his face blank.

"My name is Castiel Novak. I am a Professor of Psychology at Carmel University. I am supervising Anna in her postgraduate studies."

Dean whistled a low note and jiggled his shoulders. Castiel's brow furrowed in response and he ceased in his stirring momentarily, but Dean made no move to continue.

"Anna is a very talented student. Perhaps my brightest."

"Good for her."

Castiel pursed his lips.

"She has also suffered a great deal in her life so far. Your comments last night rather awoke some difficult memories for her. After speaking with her, I am sure these are memories which merit some treatment. She is not properly resolved for your influence at this time."

Dean titled his head to the side, and lets an unpleasant glower rush across his face: "Now, I may be wrong here, but beneath all the pretension and douchebaggery, I think you just told me to kindly fuck off."

Castiel started at the sharp change in tone, but kept his face careful and relaxed, even though it felt as though tension had flashflooded the room: "I am merely speaking out of concern for her. She is not in a position to properly process whatever you say to her. I don't mean to-"

"Whatever I say to her?"

Castiel chose to ignore the quick rising in Dean's voice, and was careful to answer evenly and slowly, with full, convincing eye contact: "She is convinced you saw the ghost of her mother."

Dean snorted and shuffled through the piles of papers in front of him, extracting a small and beaten hip flask and giving it a small shake. He grinned inanely at Castiel when he heard the satisfying slosh of liquid awaiting him. "Oh, is that all? I thought it would have been worse."

"In her current state, she cannot possibly entertain delusions like that such that-"

Dean shrugged and unscrewed the cap of the bottle.

"Well, that would be terrible. But it wasn't a delusion. I saw her."

Castiel's mouth snapped shut, and for one uncontrolled moment, he felt a flash of fury in his core. It was smothered quickly, beneath decades of academic impartial expertise and careful performance fine-tuning. In the moment though, Dean was quick to seize on the silence, and he filled it at once with a vigorous defense: "I saw her, as clearly as I'm seeing you now. She was standing there."

Dean indicated with a swing of his flask to the offending spot. "Behind Anna. With her hand on her shoulder. And I could smell lavender so strongly I thought I'd choke on it." With a challenging look, he took the flask and tilted his head back, imbibing a generous helping of (what Castiel realised, as the scent made its way to him) whiskey.

Castiel cleared his throat carefully, and once again rearranged his face so that it is entirely devoid of feeling. "Regardless, Dean..."

"Look she's a grown up... she can make her own decisions."

"She is-"

"Does she even know you're here?"

"She gave me the address."

Dean's mouth clamped shut and he crossed his arms.

"Look, if she's changed her mind, that's fine. But if she comes here, I'm not gonna turn her away."

Castiel sighed and leaned forward. "Dean, please reconsider. I appreciate that this is your livelihood, but Anna is not in a condition-"

There was a thunk as Dean's flask dropped to the table, and his face twisted with aggravation.

"I'm not... I'm not fucking _charging her_. This isn't some game of exploiting her dead mother. I _saw her_."

"I am sure that you-"

Dean's right eyelid twitched. "You think I just go around _extorting people_?"

Castiel paused, and slid back in his seat, shaking his head. "No."

The answer was not convincing enough for Dean, however, whose face flushed red. "You think I'm crazy? That I do this for kicks?"

Castiel didn't answer immediately, instead dropping his gaze to his tea and staring at his vague reflection within it. "I am only asking that in Anna's circumstance, you-"

"And what would you say if I told you there was a child here in this room with us right now, calling you Daddy?"

Castiel looked up sharply, just in time to see Dean's eyes slide from Castiel's right to his face, and despite the rumbling physical anger in his stature, there was a flash of something behind his eyes that seemed like immediate regret.

Even then, the words hit Castiel with the force of a freight train. Despite his experience with mediums who wanted to "prove themselves", the way Dean pronounced the word "Daddy" – with venom – caused a vile horror to rise in his chest. At once, a hand raised to his mouth and stroked an expression of anger off his face. Despite the effort of control, he could feel his eyes darkening and the lowness of his own voice startled him, as he squeezed out his retort: "Very good. You've done your homework. Did Anna tell you I might stop by, then?"

Dean's entire expression dropped, suddenly, and his eyes flickered to Castiel's right again.

"What?"

"Boy or girl. Go on, you've got a 50% chance of getting it right."

Dean's mouth fell open, and his lower lip stumbled around multiple attempts at an answer. Abruptly, his expression changed, and a thin sheen of tears gathered across his irises.

"How could you... you _know _she's a little girl."

The earnestness of the emotion – so wonderfully contrived – had Castiel's heart thud at his chest with one brutal angry pulse. Quickly, and before he could betray the integrity he was determined to protect, he stood sharply. So quickly, in fact, that the force of his movement propelled the table forwards and hemmed Dean into his chair.

"You don't... you have no right to say those... excuse me."

Castiel's words were only a breath away from a snarl, and before Dean could protest, he wrenched his trenchcoat from their chair behind him and stumbled from the room, colliding partially with the door frame on his way out.

If Dean followed, Castiel didn't hear him, and despite his intended temperance, the door slammed behind him as he hurried down the stairs at Dean's doorway, lip curling around responses that remained unuttered, and a rising emotion that Castiel was loathe to encounter.

...

Castiel drove furiously back to the University, narrowly avoiding passing motorists as he wove between cars without care to check his blind spot. After one motorist caught sight of him, fists clenched around the wheel, he yelled at him to "get the fuck off the road" and blasted his horn even as Castiel careered down the street in front of him.

The violence of the man's gesture was enough to have Castiel eventually find the presence of mind to pull over. He left his window wipers on and the engine running as he leaned over the steering wheel, pressing his forehead against it for support. His breaths came in short gasps, as he wrenched his wallet from his pocket.

Where his driver's license was intended to go – behind a tacky plastic pocket with sticky covering – Castiel's gaze fixated on the image of a three year old girl, with bright blonde hair and a cripplingly beautiful smile stained red with a lipstick of summer strawberries. She was on Castiel's lap in the picture, and his arm supported her back as she looked up to him with a manic grin, pushing a strawberry into his waiting mouth. He was laughing, and his eyes were in love.

Castiel stared at the image, fingers clenched tight around its edges, as his breathing rose and his face commenced the twitchy choreography of grief. As long as he could bear it, he looked upon the picture, until new notes of anguish rang in his returning frantic breaths. With a curse that could scarcely do justice to one-hundredth of his regret, he threw his wallet face down in the passenger seat, and covered his face with his hands - squeezing his eyes shut desperately trying to drown out the sound of his own pitiful despair as his body ground out the gasping language of desolation.

...

**AN: Greetings, beauteous reader, and thank you for trawling through to the end of this chapter. If you find yourself interested in this work, please take note that it will be updated weekly from now until completion!**

**I cannot recommend enough the TV Series that this work is inspired by/borrows from/basically is a retelling of: the ITV series "Afterlife". If you were a fan of that eerie, suspenseful horror of Supernatural's earlier seasons, then I can most earnestly assure you that this series is absolutely for you. In addition, if you needed another incentive, it stars a (very attractive) younger Andrew Lincoln, before he was Rick Grimes on "The Walking Dead". However, and I make this warning emphatically, DO NOT watch it by yourself, at home, late at night (ESPECIALLY episode 1x03, Rookie mistake, you won't sleep for a week). Even if it spoils this story for you (I'll be following the main plot points fairly closely), you should watch it anyway. It is an absolutely outstanding series and this fic is a paltry substitute. Seriously, watch it.**

**Also, I want to make a note before anyone gets too invested (and I disappoint them with this): Sam is very scarcely mentioned in this fic. There is a REASON for this (and it is in no way anything to do with this author's preference for Dean and Cas, or Destiel). I have missed him very much when writing, in all his moose-y glory. I mention this because I know some people love Sam too dearly to get through a fic without him (and I totes understand). So, fair warning. You won't be seeing him for some time.**

**That said, onward! I hope you liked! Constructive feedback always welcome :)**


	2. That descends

**AN: So you know how I said I would update weekly? I'm terrifically sorry about that. I had this ridiculous idea that Mondays would be a better update night than Sundays, so I could work on fresh content on Sundays rather than editing. But now I remember why my update night is Sundays - Mondays never go well at work, and I finish at absurd hours, and I get home and fall asleep halfway through a chapter! So, the long and short of it is, you CAN expect weekly updates. I will upload Chapter Three this Sunday night and proceed on a weekly basis after that.**

**Two crucial warnings prior to this chapter. **

**The first applies to the entirety of the work - that is, heed the Major Character Death tag. If death is any way triggering to you, I would caution you against this story. The characters will talk on and around this topic in a number of ways, and, of course, there will be characters who suffer it. You will have noted already from the first chapter that Castiel is enduring the aftermath of such an event.**

**The second warning applies to this chapter specifically. If you are triggered by death-related things, please note the following warning (I have used a basic code for this - a=b, b=c etc, to avoid people spoiling themselves accidentally). B dibsbdufs dpnnjut tvjdjef jo uijt dibqufs.**

**Thank you so much to those who wrote me comments following the first chapter. You are all amazing, and I certainly had not anticipated receiving such delightful feedback straight off the bat (if at all). My past week has been experienced through a pleasant haze of joy, thanks to you all :)**

**CHAPTER TWO**

On the Friday after Castiel's ill-fated visit to Dean's, Anna bounded up to him at the end of his lecture, manuscript in hand. The rest of the class trudged more slowly, shuffling through pages one last time, and some giving pained howls as they discovered mistakes or misadventures (knowing both of which Castiel was a stickler for, and even worse, that he would not hasten to denounce them with a few ruthless strokes of his red pen).

"First essay of the semester, done and dusted." She dropped it on his desk with a theatrical thump and raised her hand in a flourish that Castiel couldn't help but grin at.

"I'm glad to see you looking well, Anna."

"Yeah," she laughed brightly, and pulled her books to her chest, bringing her shoulders up to her ears before breathing out in a quick sigh, "since I went to see Dean things just kind of... fell into place."

"Really?"

The incredulity in Castiel's tone was obvious, but in Anna's brightened state, she scarcely noticed or had the will to address it. Instead, she only nodded enthusiastically, and Castiel sat back upon the edge of his desk, arms crossed, but with an easy enough disposition.

Castiel's other students gave their conversation leeway. As they moved up in the queue for hand-in, they deposited their essays on top of Anna's and continued to the door without incident. Castiel watched them out of the corner of his eye and gave a few small nods of acknowledgment as a couple passing gave him nervous smiles. "So, what he said... it helped?"

"Yeah, I mean, he just made things clear."

Castiel's eyebrows raised as Anna shrugged happily under his survey, and her mouth twitched.

"I'm glad."

"Thanks Professor."

With a soft smile, Castiel pulled the pile of essays towards him. He pulled Anna's from the bottom, and held it up for her view. "I'm looking forward to reading this."

She inclined her head and grinned.

"You better. I'm a superstar."

Castiel laughed as Anna whirled and practically skipped from the room, taking the hand of Inias – her boyfriend, Castiel had since surmised – and leaning into his shoulder as they wandered down the hallway together, darting between the bustling students.

...

Castiel took the essays home with him that evening. Settled at his desk with a mug of elderflower tea, a bright desk lamp, and his reading glasses, he couldn't help but hunt through the papers to find Anna's first. It wasn't proper for a Professor to have favorites. But he, like many of his peers, was at times unable to help himself – what academic could not be excited in the face of pure, unwashed talent, ready and waiting to be molded and directed towards creative and discerning output? Anna was well-situated to take an academic path – if she so chose – and he was anxious to offer whatever mentoring he could.

The first page was her title page, and Castiel let his eye skim over it lightly. Despite his anticipation, Castiel couldn't help himself in his painstaking check for accuracy in the document's presentation. Her title was snappy, and he dropped a tick by it to indicate his approval.

The second page was blank, but Castiel ignored it, and merely licked the pad of his finger to scoop up the sheet and flick to the next page. He raised his mug to his mouth to take a draught of tea, but it paused when he found the following page was blank too. His mug remained frozen in its position when he flicked the next page over and found the same, and then the same. He continued flicking one handed, until his stomach dropped and he hurriedly dropped the mug to his desk. Breath held, he raised the document in both hands and flipped through the pages. They were all blank – no content at all.

Slowly, he lowered the paper and raised his palms to his mouth, pressing them together as though in prayer. He could feel his heartbeat becoming erratic, as he circled around a dawning conclusion.

Anna had suddenly been so upbeat that morning.

She was usually such a meticulous student – he knew her grades were in the upper echelons.

It was a rash act, with such a bright disposition. In a way, without a sense of consequence...

Castiel hurriedly flipped his laptop open and accessed the University's intranet portal. His trembling fingers were inefficient, and he was forced to double-click on the icon labeled PSYCH 706: Psychology and Mortality several times before he managed to produce the requisite speed to trigger the expansion of the folder. From there, he anxiously hunted through the spreadsheets until he found the information he was looking for, and reached for his phone, entering the numbers hurriedly with a pounding heart.

The phone was picked up before the first ring was even over.

"Hello, is An-"

"Get off the line! Get off the line!" The voice was warped by terror as it howled from the stomach of the person screaming into the phone. Despite its high pitch, it was recognizably male, and Castiel's mind flashed to Inias, and the image of him and Anna pressed together in the hallway.

"I'm sorry, what?" The polite query was a reaction, unthinking, as he tried to make sense of the acid of horror-induced adrenaline in the man's yell. As if, perhaps, if he were polite enough, it might be a dreadful mistake.

There was a muffled shout just before the dial tone went dead: "Phone the ambulance. Hurry! HURRY!" and then a long high-pitched wail of desperation.

...

Castiel phoned Meg on his way to the hospital, gave her Dean Winchester's name and address, and instructed her to locate his phone number as soon as practicable. Meg, being astute as she was, didn't ask questions, and within two minute after making the call, he received a text with a home number. Castiel didn't bother to pull over to make the call, and merely held his phone between his ear and his shoulder as he sped past other cars down the highway.

Dean picked up on the third ring.

"Who is this?"

"_What did you say to her?_" Castiel hissed into the phone, swerving around a slow motorist and across into the left hand lane, to the disdain of an oncoming driver, who tooted at him furiously. His eyes moved to the rearview mirror quickly to check for damage, but when there was none, he sped on.

"What? I-"

"What did you say to Anna?"

Dean paused for a moment, and swallowed on the end of the line.

"Castiel?"

There was a shuffle – like a rumple – and then a click of a light switch being turned on.

"What's happened?"

Castiel breathed out his disbelief through his nose – _how dare he play so innocent _– before growling into the phone. "I'm on my way to the hospital. There's-"

"Shit." The phone line went dead immediately. Castiel took one hand off the wheel to bring the screen within his vision. He immediately redialed Dean's number, and left the phone on speaker. There was no response after two efforts, however, and he cursed at his phone as he hurled it into the passenger seat. Ten seconds later, however, he was forced to pick it up again when it buzzed with a series of texts from Meg.

_What's happening?!_

_C, do u need me 2 call sum1?_

While Castiel arrived at the hospital in less than fifteen minutes, it took him longer to persuade the nurse on the front desk to instruct him as to the location of the room where Anna was undergoing her emergency procedure.

By the time he arrived to the waiting area outside the corridor, Dean had somehow circumvented hospital administration and was sitting with his head in his hands on a solitary green plastic chair that almost pitifully exemplified the sticky and cold surrealness of the place. A few seats down from him, a tearful Inias was being cradled by Hester, who looked at Castiel with a distracted kind of recognition. Castiel ignored Dean momentarily in favor of moving towards the pair, although they were both beyond distracted and barely focused long enough to answer his questions.

"What happened?"

Inias sobbed lightly and curled in on himself, hiding his face. Hester pulled him closer to her and spoke in a wrecked voice, swallowing down spontaneous bursts of emotion to punctuate her sentence: "We came home and... the bathroom door was locked. At first, we didn't think anything of it, but... we could see the light was on, and she wasn't answering. Inias broke the door down and..." Hester's chest twitched violently, and she gasped in a breath, seemingly not of her own accord. "She cut her wrists."

Even though Castiel had suspected as much, aside from the brutality of the method, the announcement jarred at his chest. Inias was doubly affected – wracking out another sob and dropping his head so it hung between his knees. His breathing, in between a disbelieving chant of "no, no, no" was quick, fast, and staggeringly difficult. Castiel seated himself quickly beside him and squeezed him on the shoulder.

"Inias. Focus on your breathing. Please. Breathe in as much as you can and hold it for three seconds."

Inias sobbed into his legs but pulled in a shuddering breath and held it. He went too long though and eventually, Castiel had to nudge his shoulder again and remind him to breathe out. They repeated the exercise several times, with several episodes of hyperventilation before Inias managed to recover control of himself. He descended back to hang between his knees and Hester looked up with a tear-stained face to Castiel. Her message was clear, and Castiel nodded once and departed, leaving the friends to share in their terror together, in the pathetic fluorescent little hall.

Dean didn't even look up when Castiel approached him, though he flinched at Castiel's hiss.

"Tell me. Now. What did you say to her?"

Dean swallowed heavily, before summoning the courage to look away from his hands. Castiel had half-expected his face to be tear-stained at least too (_crocodile tears_), but was surprised to find instead that Dean's expression was blank and incredulous.

"Nothing. Nothing. I swear. I tried to help her move on. I just told her that she was alive, and her mother was dead. That's the point, that was all, I didn't..."

Castiel let a small noise in the back of his throat, and that was enough to silence Dean. He met Castiel's gaze silently until the burden became too heavy, and perhaps, the realization of wrongness sunk in. Then, as though a scolded child, he returned to letting his forehead rest on his hands, staring blankly at the ground.

Castiel watched him for a moment, before breathing heavily through his nose and taking a seat beside Dean, foot thrumming against the sticky linoleum.

It was another half an hour before anything at all happened. They all sat in silence, aside from a few soft murmurs from Hester and tearful groans for Inias.

Dean took to pacing up and down the corridor. With each repetition, he moved further and further, until eventually he was stalking its length to the point where it turned at a ninety degree angle and went to the left. He must have repeated the full walk twenty times before the door to the surgery room opened, and Inias, Hester and Castiel stood urgently, swarming the doctor who emerged.

Castiel spared only a momentary glance for Dean, and was at least relieved to see that, upon the doctor's arrival, he had chosen to stay away from the group. Instead, he faced away from them, forehead resting against the wall and hands pressed flat against it. In a daze of expectation regarding the doctor's announcement, and the hollow sound of her voice, Castiel barely noted the massive, horrific shivers that shook Dean's whole body from the base of his spine.

"Are you the family?"

Castiel turned backwards quickly to the doctor, who stared between them cautiously. Inias only managed a gulped sob, and Hester shook her head silently. At the pleas in their gazes as they turned towards him, Castiel stepped forward and gestured between them.

"No. No. Anna doesn't have any family. I'm her University lecturer. The-these are her friends."

He gestured feebly at Inias and Hester, who leaned desperately on one another.

The doctor was young, and pure-faced. Her skin was fresh from make-up, but shone with the exertion of her work. Castiel saw at once that her expression was glassy and abandoned, and his stomach dropped into a pit of dread.

"Well, as you know, when Anna came in, she had already lost an awful... a tremendous lot of blood."

Hester swallowed and cut across the woman, disbelief at her words written into her tone: "She's going to pull through though? I mean, she was still alive when we brought her in."

The doctor kept talking - quickly. Castiel felt his face drop at the urgency in her pace. For a moment, he looked up to Dean again, unwilling to witness the expression on Inias' face at the conclusion of the words. It was then he saw that Dean had turned, and was staring at the group. His eyes were wide and fixated, and his head was shaking back and forth in determined arcs.

"We obviously... with the shock to the system it was touch and go. But... Anna died a few minutes ago. I'm really very sorry, we really did do everything we could."

The doctor's last words were drowned out by the sound of Inias' howl and Hester's broken sob, who, in her grief, lost her grip on Inias and stumbled back into the wall. Her head hit it with a dull thud, and she sunk down slowly until she was clutching at her knees. Beside Castiel, Inias' knees gave way too, and (despite the force of shock coursing through Castiel's own body) he managed to summon the direction to capture Inias beneath the armpits. Hester stared pitifully onwards as he stumbled over to the green chairs, all but dragging Inias, and forced him upon one. Though he spoke frantically, trying to gain Inias' attention, it had little impact, and Inias withdrew to mutter statements of disbelief in a childish voice. "Just this morning… she told me she'd see me tonight."

The doctor approached Castiel quietly and spoke in a soft, caring tone: "There's a family room just down to the right. There's couches and…tea and coffee. You can stay there as long as you need."

Castiel nodded quickly in understanding, but Hester and Inias seemed to fail to register the information, only sinking in on themselves and shivering.

The sign down the corridor that marked the room was at least 20 meters away, and neither Inias or Hester was prepared to move for the time being. Castiel considered hauling Inias there himself, but he was wary of leaving Hester on her own even for a few minutes. It was too raw.

Yet, he knew the doctor's purpose. The emergency surgery area was a busy one, and one where they ought not to have waited. Anna's body would have to be removed as soon as possible to the morgue. Neither Inias nor Hester ought to be present in the corridor when that occurred.

Castiel swallowed down a vile note, and looked to Dean, who was still staring – lost – down the other corridor. With a grit of his teeth, he advanced, his steps gaining the speed of irritation when Dean failed to respond to his approach.

"Dean, I need you to-"

"She's there."

Dean didn't look at Castiel as he raised a shaking hand to point down the corridor where a series of staff bustled past, heads down and focused.

Castiel paused in front of him, brow crashing down atop his eyes, and murmuring lowly: "What?"

"Anna, she-"

Dean hiccupped once, and swallowed it down, before his upper lip curled around his teeth. "The woman in the white coat... she's standing beside her... and they're holding hands. They're _smiling _at me."

Dean's mouth stuttered around an aborted cry, and he turned to Castiel, lines of horror running across his face in the folds of its skin, and a silent howl upon his lips. "I feel... _happy_... it's-"

Castiel snapped with the force of a train through a pedestrian barrier, and pushed forwards into Dean's space quickly, forcing him to fall back against the wall to avoid his assault.

"Be quiet!"

The force of Castiel's tone had Dean's mouth snapping shut immediately. Still, his eyes flickered back to the end of the corridor once, before turning back to Castiel and within one, a tear threatened to fall. Castiel raised a fist, balling it and holding it against his mouth – breathing frantically through his nose.

Behind them, Inias had returned to sobbing howls, and Hester was following suit.

Castiel gritted his teeth and leaned forward to growl at Dean.

"You need to leave. Now. If you try to contact either Inias, Hester, or myself, I will phone the police. Do you understand?"

Dean's chest leapt as though he'd been shocked there and his expression fell. Castiel felt his own lip twist, into an expression that he knew had never sat upon his face before. Dean appraised it silently, before giving one curt nod of understanding. Quickly, he tried to move out from beneath Castiel, but Castiel moved to block his passage down the corridor towards Inias and Hester.

"Find another way out. I don't want them to see you."

Dean nodded again quickly. His eyes glazed over, and for a moment, Castiel worried he might refuse. But he sunk down on his heels and let his shoulders droop, dropping his head forward and moving determinedly away. Castiel stared until he rounded the corner, before quickly rushing back to the sobbing pair, and calmly and carefully imploring a tearful Hester to help him with Inias. When she had calmed enough, she obliged with an empty assent, and for hours after, both she and Inias stared silently at the miniscule TV screen that occupied the family room. In the face of their cries, the silence was deafening – and both were so still that on several occasions Castiel felt the need to check they were breathing.

...

It was 3am that morning, after Castiel had driven both Inias and Hester home from the hospital, when he found himself at Dean's doorstep.

It was a conscious decision. He was reluctant to return to his home immediately – it was too normal for what had passed, and he would no doubt need that haven in time. More still, he regretted the manner of his speaking to Dean at the hospital – though the sentiment was unchanged.

Dean didn't admit the strangeness of the appearance, other than to concede: "I couldn't sleep either" before he proceeded wordlessly back to the kitchen. Castiel followed him with less hesitation for a second time, and without bothering to discard his shoes, to stand with him under the lone, flickering lightbulb of the pitiful room.

Dean didn't even bother to hide the tear stains on his cheeks, and instead let them reflect the light brazenly as he looked Castiel in the eye and poured him a glass of some vile smelling substance that Castiel, through the ash in his mouth, could not name the smell of. He passed Castiel the glass, and Dean jolted when their fingers brushed in the exchange.

"Thank you".

Dean sat silently and stared at Castiel, searching and incomprehensible.

When he spoke, his voice was meek and child-like. "You blame me, don't you?"

Castiel didn't even bother to look away from Dean, as his hand fished for the glass before him and raised it to his lips, taking in half of the proffered serving without even bothering to swallow. He reveled in the passivity of the sensation, as the alcohol ran directly down his throat and washed into his belly, soothing over a rising burn of rage there.

"I should have seen it earlier. I didn't."

Dean started shaking his head. Tiny movements at first, but quickly turned into massive sweeps of his head. They appeared almost involuntary, and Dean spoke through them as though they were not occurring, allowing the movements to quell in their own time.

"Her mother... the other night...she kept saying that she was sorry. But she wasn't sorry for what she did. She was just sorry that she didn't take her daughter." Dean's voice cracked once, and then again when he restarted his explanation, though he soldiered on: "Sometimes it's like they're just messing with us..."

He braced his lips against a tide of emotion and swallowed them back down with a lengthy pull of his own liquor. Castiel only realised then that Dean had awarded himself the bottle, after preparing Castiel's serving.

"They won't... they won't let me stop playing. I only want it to stop." Dean's words drowned into a small moan as his head dropped down towards the table – he only managed to catch it with his palm a second before collision.

His cry was a weak sound – ridden with the decay of effort.

"I just... I just want to be alone."

Castiel nodded silently and took another draught of his drink, before knotting his hands together on the table before him. They didn't speak for the remainder of the evening – and the silence of the room was only punctuated with the sounds of swallowing and the smack of lips around glass rims.

Dean passed out from the volume of liquor he consumed around 4am.

Castiel monitored him for a few hours – mostly to ensure, in his awkward position leaning against the table that he would not choke on his own vomit.

Castiel departed at 6am that morning, after washing his glass and leaving it to dry on Dean's drying rack. He didn't wake Dean up, nor did he lock the door behind him.

And he cried on the drive back to his home.

...

It was two months before Castiel spoke to Dean again, long after Inias had unenrolled from the graduate programme, and Hester had changed her thesis topic so that Castiel was no longer her supervisor. It would extend her Masters by six months, but Castiel could scarcely blame her. The faculty, despite a meeting discussing the incident, declined to pursue the matter further.

Meg was the first to raise Dean, and despite Castiel's rigid declination to answer, she was fervent in her opinion as to how Castiel ought to proceed.

"You know, you always write in generalities, Clarence. How long has it been since you've carried out an original study?"

Castiel scratched at his nose and ignored her, in favor of typing announcement to be distributed to his Year One students on the University's intranet, which would advise them as to the appropriate readings from their course materials in preparation for their examination.

"Not long enough..."

"Castiel, I know that he... You said it yourself that he's different. And that you found him unnerving. And I know it takes more than a few lucky guesses to ruffle your feathers."

"He's a master at his craft. Nothing more."

Castiel increased the violence of his tapping at the keyboard, in order to produce enough sound to drown out Meg's slow drawl. She circumvented him by leaning across his office desk and closing the laptop screen onto his fingers. Castiel turned his gaze to her haughtily and pressed his mouth in a grim line.

"Yes, but _why_?"

"Pardon?"

Meg crossed her arms and seated herself on his desk, so that her thighs brushed against Castiel's shoulder as she stared him down. He could smell her perfume from the miniscule distance between them – it was strong and fiery and balsamic, and rather overwhelming.

"He's your perfect subject. He's unusual, he's clever and he's got the act down. I know you're interested."

Castiel sighed and ran a hand across his forehead, adjusting his glasses on his nose.

"He's not a toy to be played with, Meg. He's obviously unstable."

She shrugged one shoulder and quirked her mouth, light of conscience in the matter.

"He toys with people. What could you possibly owe him?"

An image of Dean slumped over the table under the dim light of his kitchen flitted through Castiel's mind unbidden. Dean was a fraud, he was sure, but he was a destroyed fraud. Whatever his desire to deceive, Castiel didn't doubt that he was not entirely to blame for his actions.

"Anna-."

Meg, without malice, tutted and slunk around the desk so that she was staring Castiel down from across its surface.

"Castiel, even if he's a deceiving creep, you and I both know that Anna is not something we can hold against him. Don't pass up the opportunity because of something that none of us could have helped."

Castiel only pressed his lips together in a grim line and moved to reopen his laptop. Meg rolled her eyes, and pulled her pout halfway up her right cheek.

"Look, all I'm saying is you need to publish, and he's available." She dropped her hands to the table and leaned forward. "And unlike your usual con artist group, he might actually _need _treatment for something other than narcissism."

Point proven, and knowing it, she pulled herself up from the desk. "Think of it as pro bono. And if he's as dreadful as you seem to think he is, maybe you can do the world a favor and get him committed."

Castiel's gaze flickered up to Meg's and she cocked her head to the side in challenge.

"That's a monstrously unethical thing to say."

She breathed out a laugh, and popped out a hip.

"I know you won't tattle, Clarence. Now hop out of your ivory tower and do some real work."

...

Dean served Castiel more tea on his second visit, and judging by the still dusty state of the teabag box, Castiel was certain he was the first to be offered the luxury since the last time. Dean's face was cool and implacable, and he poured Castiel's tea in silence, making coffee for himself.

Dean had answered the door wrapped in a crocheted blanket, like a cape, and had not seen fit to remove it for the duration of the visit. As he finished stirring his drink, and sat across from Castiel, he pulled it around himself tighter, and shivered despite the temperate climate of the room.

"How have you been?"

Dean's eyebrows drooped so significantly, it looked as if his face might melt off entirely. Castiel swallowed lightly and looks down to the vague reflection of his silhouette in his tea, searching aimlessly for a quick change of subject. None came, and the silence between them ached.

"I-I'm sorry, about what happened, you know"

Dean's voice was meek and he kept his face shaded beneath his blanket as he stared down at the table.

"I know it doesn't change things, but..."

Castiel dropped his knuckles on the table to gain Dean's attention from his otherwise aimless state.

"You were not at fault. And I'm sorry for how I spoke to you at the hospital."

Dean shook his head beneath the quilt, and curled into it so that it hooded his expression from Castiel's view.

"I was an idiot."

Castiel sighed and took a sip of his tea, swallowing awkwardly. The room remained unchanged since his last visit, though possibly messier. A mountain of dirty dishes still waited by the sink, and were accompanied by a firmly knotted plastic bag crammed with discarded take out boxes. It reminded him, in some ways, of a time his own mind had been a stranger to him. It was with greater sympathy, as a result, that he turned to Dean and continued softly.

"My colleague thinks I ought to write a book about you. About your experiences."

Dean shuffled, looking up, and their eyes met, both in an attempt at a furtive glance. Dean quickly looked away, and pulled his blanket tighter around its shoulders.

"Would it – would it help me? To talk to you?"

Dean's voice shivered with his body as he appraised Castiel uncertainly, as though he were an untamed animal, freshly orphaned and left to rot in his nest, with an offer of rescue being dangled in front of it. Castiel looked down at the table, unable to watch Dean properly as he spoke and properly witnessed the desperation there: "It wouldn't be treatment, per se... but, I hope so."

He could hear Dean holding his breath across the room, and the empty silence around it compelled him to fill it. "To own it, I'm not sure." Castiel bit his lip and met Dean's gaze.

"Huh." Dean breathed out a light laugh beneath his hood. "And here I was thinking you were sure of everything."

Their eyes met for a moment, before both looked away uncomfortably – perhaps both seeing in the other a memory they would prefer to forget. Castiel dropped his mug back on the table, and reached into his wallet to fumble for one of his University business cards. He extracted a pen from the mess of his satchel, and scrawled his mobile number in a blank space, before sliding it through the mess of the table to Dean.

"I won't impose. You can call me, when you have an answer."

Dean took the card and stared at it, fiddling with the edges. At his lack of response otherwise, Castiel stood and pulled his satchel to his shoulder. He was halfway to the door when Dean asked shakily: "If I am crazy, can anyone help me?"

Castiel only turned to look at Dean. His answer – another, _I hope so_- stuck on his tongue. Dean's mouth puckered as he surveyed Castiel's expression, before nodding and turning away.

"Right, I get it. Thanks for this."

He dropped the card to the table and turned to stare at the blank wall beside him. Castiel saw himself out.

Dean didn't call – that was maybe too great an acquiescence to Castiel's wishes. However, two days later, Castiel did receive a text from an unknown number with an answer that, despite its lack of content, he knew to be Dean's: "Ok".

...

One week later, Dean sat across from Castiel in his office, determinedly avoiding his gaze. Castiel was seated with a notepad atop his desk, and a hastily scribbled: Dean Winchester, 28 – delusions (visual and aural), possible anxiety and depression, insomnia, alcoholism.

"When was your first psychic experience?"

"Uh...I was twenty one."

"Tell me about what happened."

Dean shifted in the armchair across from Castiel's, and arranged his index finger and thumb into an o shape, and then squeezed them together until there was no space left. He kept his eyes on the movement, rather than looking back to Castiel, whose pen remained poised despite Dean's reluctance.

"Shouldn't you have a chaise longue in here or something for me to lie on?"

Castiel smiled lightly, although the gesture went entirely unnoticed by Dean, who abandoned his intrigue with his own fingernails in favor of watching the clock behind Castiel's head. His eyes moved in a small circle as they trail the ticking seconds hand, which filled the silence with its insistent pulse.

"I rather imagined that you would wish to avoid that."

Dean's eyebrows raised momentarily and he jutted his chin forward, clicking his teeth together behind his closed lips. He was still without an answer though, and Castiel, with an internal sigh, met him with an even gaze: "Why don't we start with something easier?"

Dean's teeth locked together loudly, audible even through the skin of his cheek, and he dropped his gaze back to his fingers, where he let them scratch at the disintegrating edge of the armchair.

"Ok."

"Where did you grown up?"

Dean shuffled in the seat, and pulled at a loose thread on the chair's arm. "Lawrence, Kansas." His eyes flickered up to Castiel's. "You know it?"

Castiel shook his head. Dean sniggered and returned to irritating the couch fabric. "It's a shithole, that's why."

"And when did you move here?"

"Three or four months ago..." Dean counted the date on his fingers, and confirmed his calculation with a nod. "Yeah, three and a bit months."

Castiel raised his eyebrows. "I hadn't realized you were so new to the area."

"Hm." Dean shrugged. "Most of my stuff is still in boxes. I'll probably end up just chucking it out."

Castiel lowered his pen to his notepad, though he didn't write anything.

"Have you been busy?"

"I guess."

"Anything in particular?"

Dean chuckled darkly, and wiggled his finger into the small hole emerging in the upholstery, twisting it somewhat viciously to punctuate his next words: "The voices in my head. That sort of thing."

"You hear voices?"

Dean let his head rock to the side and met Castiel's gaze with an exasperated expression. "No. I see them too. But you don't believe that, do you?"

"It's not about what I believe. It's about you and your day-to-day life."

Dean ignored the deflection, and persevered with an accusing tone: "Do you even believe in anything?"

Castiel made a momentary note of his pad – _pre-emptive defensiveness -_before he looked back to Dean. "Is it very important to you that I believe in what you say, Dean?"

Dean looked away sharply, and commenced wiggling his finger to the left so that he opened up a rip in the seam. There was not even a hint of apology in his expression for so defacing Castiel's office, when he looked back up and glowered at Castiel.

"I don't want to do this."

"Why not?"

Castiel kept his voice mild and careful, as he set his pen down against his notepad, leaning forward towards Dean.

"You said you wanted to know about my life. Like, what it's like for me everyday. I don't want... I don't just want to sit here and talk... it doesn't do anything."

"Have you sought psychological treatment before?"

Dean chortled at that, and wiped at his mouth with his palm. "Yeah. It was great. I'm totally better now." The sarcasm was the primary tone, but beneath it there was an undercurrent that Castiel couldn't particularize, but reminded him of wistfulness.

"What other treatments have you tried?"

Dean breathed out a sigh and dropped his head forward, so he was pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

"You know what? I was so doped up most of the time, I can't even remember the half of them."

"You experimented with drugs?"

"No! I mean...well yeah. But I was talking about the non-fun kind. There was lithium, and ECT. All the good crops at the funny farm." He smiled at little at his own joke, although it was empty and performative beneath Dean's heavy eyelids. "Your people made me take them. None of you get it."

"Get what?"

Dean looked up and lets his head drop back into the same position, letting his ear dip towards his shoulder and his mouth hang open: "That when you dope me up like that, they just get stronger. I'm their own personal playground."

Castiel paused, mouth pursed around a difficult question.

"Do you think the spirits wish to harm you, Dean?"

Dean's lip curled and a muscle at his jaw jumped. "Yeah, some. Some just want help, but... sometimes they don't even know the difference. They're just... they're hurting, and they have no one left to turn to."

"Why do you think they choose you, to help them?"

Dean rolled his eyes, and returned to his decimation of Castiel's couch. "Damned if I know... Damned if I don't. Damned either way."

Castiel stared at Dean for a moment, and Dean – in a sudden fit of resilience – met his gaze squarely in the eyes and his mouth set in a grim line.

"Do you believe you are going to hell, Dean?"

Dean raised his eyebrows , but his head shook slowly. "Damned all the same though."

...

"How'd it go?"

"How did what go?"

Meg pushed herself off the doorframe to the lecture hall, against which she had been leaning, watching the end of Castiel's lecture. He walked past her and she tottered after, her stiletto boots dropping heavily against the paving of the lecture theatre's corridor.

"Mr Jennifer Love-Hewitt himself. Sexy psychic."

"What?"

She smirked as the words attracted his attention, and he whirled to look at her, and her tongue ran a light line atop her upper lip. "I googled, Clarence. Your boy has a reputation."

Castiel sniffed and adjusted his satchel at his shoulder before recommencing a path to his office.

"Anything of note?"

"Hm." Meg hummed an uninterested response. "Nothing too exciting. Just that he's supposedly _very good_. And that he runs from town to town."

Castiel arched an eyebrow and turned to stare at Meg. "Is that of concern?"

She shrugged and sauntered ahead of him. "Nothing that I can tell. Seems like maybe he just likes to be private. There are lists miles long of people that want his readings – just waiting to figure out which state they can chase him to next." She pronounced "readings" like it was a dirty word and waggled her eyebrows.

Castiel pursed his lips and walked mechanically beside Meg. He considered the point briefly, and pronounced officiously: "It's unethical for me to discuss him further with you."

"I know. And you'll try not to. But you will."

She threw Castiel a raucous wink, and veered her path slightly to the right so that she nudged against him. She barely reached his shoulder, but somehow, it was a comforting movement. Meg, despite appearances, was a dedicated friend, and even when the topic was far away from the underlying issue she was speaking to, and it was a perfectly timed reassurance.

He threw her one affectionate glance that made her grin before she pulled away.

"So how about that whiskey? You can bring freckles if you want. Sounds like he could use a good one."

Castiel didn't bother to reply to the second part of the statement, only responding with a: "I'm free Friday night."

Meg crowed and batted him once on the arm, before she slowed down and called after him: "It's a date, Clarence!" A few students stared, but Castiel dropped his head and continued on his path to the office. Meg laughed as he departed and he felt a smile twitch at his lips.

He could use a drink.

...

Castiel and Dean met again on the Thursday following the initial appointment. The occasion was at Castiel's insistence, and Dean was reluctant on the phone. Castiel only persuaded him to meet with a promise that he would meet Dean at his own home, and he wouldn't bring the notepad.

When he arrived at 9am, he made his way briskly to the front door, raising his fist to knock. Dean opened it before he had the chance though, and started at the sight of Castiel on his doorstep.

"Shit. I forgot about you."

"I'm flattered."

"Oh, uh, sorry..." Dean turned his back on Castiel to close the door, before turning on a heavy duty outdoors jacket. "I just got a call from the police... I have to go."

"What did you do?"

Castiel's eyebrows raised, and he shifted awkwardly in the doorway, taking a step back out of Dean's space. Dean grinned at the rudeness of the remark though, and zipped up his jacket.

"Me? Nothing. They need my help."

"The police engage the services of mediums?"

Dean ignored the bluntness of the question, and turned to lock his door. The air around them was cold, even in the enclosed space of the porch, and Dean's breath huffed out in puffs of white vapor.

"Only if they're desperate. And they keep it on the down low. I have a friend on the force."

"Who?"

"The Chief, actually. Bobby Singer."

Dean turned from the doorway to look at Castiel in the eyes. On the small terrace, they were practically pressed together, and Castiel immediately recoiled to give Dean breathing space – pressing himself up against the brick wall of the house. Dean's eyes quickly flickered across Castiel's face, before he smirked lightly. He said nothing though, and Castiel was forced to follow up awkwardly: "Perhaps I should reschedule. I can call you later in the week."

Dean said nothing again, and with a nod, Castiel turned and commenced walking stiffly down the stairs. He paused, though when he felt a tentative touch to his shoulder. As he turned, Dean immediately seemed to regret his boldness, and pulled his hand away quickly.

"What is it?"

"I just... uh..." Dean shuffled atop his feet and dug his hands into the pocket of his jacket. "Did you want to come?... I mean... you wanted to see what I do, and... this is it. Basically."

Castiel paused for a moment, and he felt his head tilt to the side as he investigated Dean's face. Dean merely gave him a nervous smile, and raised his shoulders – crowding against the cold.

"What kind of investigation is it?"

"Missing person."

Castiel took a step back and raised a hand.

"I imagine my presence might be inappropriate."

Dean's responding grin was entirely unexpected to them both. Dean's face immediately flushed and Castiel froze mid-turn. However, Dean quickly cleared his throat, and followed with a joke, in the same confident way he had flirtatiously introduced himself at the original performance: "So's mine, but they're letting me in anyway. Come on, I'll let you buy me a coffee on the way."

...

Dean escorted them to a bar that was at least an hour and a half out of town. They might have arrived quicker, except that Dean insisted on following the directions of a massive and holey map of the state – refusing to acknowledge Castiel's reading of directions from his phone's GPS and insisting, in an aggravated way, that he "shut his cakehole."

After twenty minutes of silence on the highway, Dean repeated the sentiment. Only, on that occasion, Castiel was certain Dean wasn't speaking to him.

The bar that they arrived at was obviously marked for police investigation. Yellow ribbons were erected around the building's perimeter, and one squad car was already parked outside its entrance. The ageing sign above the building proclaimed it to be "The Roadhouse".

As they pulled up, a man dressed in plain clothing stepped out of the bar. Judging by Dean's happy expression, he was Bobby Singer. For a moment. Dean was entirely at ease and he stepped forward to clap the man on the back. Bobby Singer himself seemed permanently attached to a dour looking expression that didn't faze Dean, who entered the bar in a relaxed state and seemed to lose his nervousness even when he looked back and met Castiel's eye.

"How ya doin' son?"

"Well enough, Bobby. S'good to see you."

Bobby made a gruff noise in his throat in response, and turned to glower at Castiel. "Who the hell are you?"

Dean stepped in between them quickly, and grinned at Bobby winningly.

"This here's Doctor Castiel Novak. He's writin' a book about me." Dean clicked his tongue as he flashed Bobby a grin. "I'm famous."

Castiel extended a hand awkwardly, and Bobby, with a little reluctance, shook it quickly.

"Hmph, doesn't say much."

Castiel opened his mouth to respond, but Dean winked at him, and quickly cut across "Oh trust me, he says plenty. This here's a blessing in disguise."

There was no further interest in Bobby's gaze as he turned back to Dean and indicated to the bar. Castiel followed as they made their way inside, making a mental note of the abrupt change in Dean's demeanor during the morning.

"Hm. Right, well, let's get on with it."

Dean nodded quickly and lead their way into the main room of a bar, which was still set up for a night's activities. It was empty of patrons, however, and eerily quiet. Dean continued wandering around the room, but when Castiel moved to follow Bobby held out an arm: "Let him work."

Dean either didn't hear or didn't acknowledge the order, pursing his lips and whistling lightly, as he moved to examine the bar's liquor supplies. Bobby directed Castiel to the corner of the bar and seated him on a barstool, eyeballing him when Castiel made to withdraw a notebook. Whatever reprimand he had imagined for Castiel, however, was replaced with barked instruction to Dean when he caught him reaching for a bottle of whiskey: "Hands off, boy!"

Dean withdrew, looking sheepish, and flushed as Castiel caught his gaze.

Bobby kept a quick eye on him as he pulled up a stool beside Castiel, and leaned his elbow upon the table, staring him directly in the eyes.

"What's your game?"

"Pardon?" Castiel blinked and looked away from Dean, placing his hands together neatly at his lap.

Bobby sighed with exasperation when he answered, and his tone was bristling: "You. With the book. And Dean."

Castiel kept his tone mild, and his response bland. "An academic study. I write in psychology, specializing in the psychology of belief and imagination."

"You practiced?"

"A little, yes."

"Hmph."

Bobby cast a glance in Dean's direction, who ambled behind the bar to a storeroom, throwing only a questioning look at the pair of them before he opened the door and made his way inside. "Then you know he's got problems."

"Naturally I am concerned about his condition. He is clearly drained by his experiences."

Bobby shook his head with aggravated speed."I'm not talking about the voices... well, no, I mean... I am... but be careful with him. He's not crazy."

Castiel nodded in careful understanding, and turned down to look at the notes on his page, considering his response. Bobby spared him that, however, by dropping his voice low. "For all I know, you're a nice kid. But if you defame him in any way, or hurt him... just remember, he's got friends."

Castiel pursed his lips at the "kid" remark, and met Bobby's gaze evenly. "I have no such intention. I hope the project might offer him some solace – he has told me he has not experienced much success with more conventional methods of therapy."

"Damn right."

"I am here with an open mind, and concern for Dean only. I assure you there is no corrupt agenda."

Bobby grumbled, before he turned back to stare at the empty room. "We'll see about that. Just remember what I said."

"Duly noted."

They sat in silence for a few awkward minutes, and Bobby took a phone call for some time after that. When he was done, he returned to where Castiel was sitting, trailing Dean's movement as he emerged from the storage area, and opened the door to a small office.

Castiel looked nervously to Bobby, before asking quietly.

"Do you often employ Dean in these investigations?"

Bobby turned his head quickly, and he moved his hand to rub at his beard. "I know what you're gonna say-"

"I merely wish to better understand the kinds of activities Dean tends to engage in."

Bobby raised his eyebrows, presumably in disbelief, but he continued regardless. "We try not to. This is the first time I've used him in person in years. Used to be I'd just phone him, when we'd get a bit desperate. Doesn't matter where he's at. And sometimes he'd phone in about stuff he'd seen on the news. Can't use it officially, of course, but... well goddamnit, kid's been right more often than not."

"What kind of information?"

"Tidbits. Usually weird, cryptic stuff. A lot of the time it doesn't make sense until after the fact. But he's sniffed out a few things – sometimes leads us to a bit of evidence."

"Surely that must raise suspicions."

Bobby nodded emphatically.

"It does. Exactly why I keep his involvement on the lowdown. Uppity cops, they get jumpy. Start gettin' suspicious. I did too at first, but..."

"But what?"

Bobby grimaced, crossing his arms and leaning forward to set his elbows against the table before them. "When you see him, do what he does, it starts gettin' you thinkin' you know. I never bought any of this stuff for a long time, but... somethin' goin' on there."

"He certainly is unique."

Bobby nodded, and looked once to the door through which Dean exited.

"Dean only moved here recently. How long have you been here? When did you leave Kansas?"

"About a year. Got a better job offer here. He phoned me and told me he was lookin' to uproot a few months ago. I suggested here – to look out for him, but he dun't know that."

Castiel nodded lightly, and when Bobby looked away and swallowed gruffly, he steered the conversation back to more comfortable, at least, more academic territory.

"What sort of result are you anticipating?"

"Best result he comes back with nothin'. Means our missin' person is still kickin."

"What information has he been given? Has he seen the file?"

"Nothin'. Doesn't know name, gender, age... he don't need it. If there's somethin' there, he'll sniff it out. Speakin' of which..."

He flicked his gaze back to the room through which Dean exited.

"What is it?"

"He's been in there a long goddamn time is what. Shit."

"You think he is speaking with someone?"

"That's exactly what I'm thinkin'. And if that's the case, odds are our girl is dead."

Bobby reached into a rucksack and pulled from it a manila envelope file, already stuffed to the brim with documents. He opened it for Castiel, with a short "this is confidential" warning, and pointed to an a4 photograph paperclipped to the inside page. A bright, cheery girl grinned at him from the picture, who – pursuant to the name written in black sharpie at the base of the image – Castiel presumed was named "Joanna Harvelle".

"What happened?"

"Vanished from here two nights ago, after a bar shift. We have a guy in custody, but we need somethin' concrete to point to or we can't keep him. Hopin' Dean can get us there. Was hopin' that she would... damnit."

Castiel nodded sympathetically but kept his tone even and controlled: "you don't know that yet, Bobby."

Bobby nodded, but it seemed more performative to silence Castiel than to emphasize actual agreement. Afterwards, he slammed the manila envelope shut and rested his forehead in his hands.

Dean took another half an hour to exit from the office, and when he did his face was ashen. Bobby sighed and rammed his fist against the table before Dean even had a chance to pronounce his verdict. Dean sluggishly dragged himself over to the table, and sat heavily in the seat Bobby drew over for him, staring at the tabletop gormlessly. He was a far cry from the joking entertainer of two hours ago.

Most obvious was the slight tremor to his fingers, like a drug addict separated too long from his next hit. His face was almost waxen too, and his muscles sat frozen and unmoving in an expression of stupor. They both stayed silent, waiting for Dean to speak, but he only managed a small murmur.

"Sorry Bobby."

There was an almost childish lilt to the apology, and Dean hung his head as though execting reprimand.

"S'fine kid. D'you get anything?"

Dean sighed and clasped his hands together, linking his fingers on the countertop and running his right thumb along the knuckle of his index finger. At his jaw, a muscle twitched and jumped.

"She was very confused. Didn't really understand what had happened to her. But she was shivering.. .she was so scared. And she smelled kinda damp, dark. Really dingy."

"Anythin' else?"

"Her... uh-," Dean's voice rises a register and cracks on the word, "her shirt was... torn."

"You mean...?"

Dean swallowed a small noise in his throat and pressed his fist to his lips, as though swallowing back an eruption of bile. He looked back to the table and let out an abrupt breath, wet sounding as his throat releases around whatever he had suppressed in his stomach.

"I think so. She... God, I feel sick."

Bobby paused and swallowed, and with the minute distance between them Castiel could hear the way his dry throat struggled with the act.

"Were there any marks of a struggle, or..."

"She wouldn't come out and look at me. She just stood there in the shadows. I couldn't see..."

Dean fell silent, and Bobby ran his hand down his jawline. During the pause, Dean looked to Castiel briefly, but his expression fell when he saw the neutrality with which Castiel surveyed him.

"Something you wanna ask, Professor?"

Bobby whirled on Castiel, who sat straight and held his breath against the silent accusation.

"You're upset, Dean."

"Go ahead."

Castiel's gaze shifted between Dean and Bobby, before he asked evenly. "Did the spirit tell you her name?"

Bobby rolled his eyes before Dean even gave his answer. Dean's tone was empty, and there was no elation in his eyes when Castiel's expression betrayed the fact that his answer was right.

"Her name is Jo. Jo Harvelle. Her mom owns this place."

Bobby flipped open the envelope with a pointed glance at Castiel. Dean scarcely glanced at it though, and turned his forlorn gaze back to the office doorway.

"I'm sorry, Bobby." Dean reached out a hand, still trembling lightly, and clapped it on Bobby's shoulder.

"S'not your fault, kid."

Dean sighed and looked down at his fidgeting fingers.

"I can try again later. Maybe she'll say more. She just... she was struggling to face it. She can't remember at the moment."

"That's fine, kid. Here, let me get you a drink."

At first, Castiel imagined that Bobby intended to make for the bar, and make use of the Roadhouse's extensive supply. However, he only shifted vaguely in his chair and extracted a small flask. When he wiggled it in front of Dean's blank face, Castiel heard the slosh of liquid. That perked Dean up enough to get him moving, and he took a healthy swig of the strong smelling liquid without so much as a wince.

"Do you think you'll get anything else this morning, kid?"

Dean cast his eye around the room and shook his head. "Not yet."

Bobby nodded diplomatically and leaned back in his chair.

"Well, best clear you out then. The boys'll be back to take another look at this place in an hour or so."

"Yeah, sure. Thanks Bobby."

"I'm the one to be thankin' you. We'll hear from you if-"

"Of course."

Dean staggered up, and for a moment, Castiel extended his hand, ready to correct a misstep. Dean managed to right himself on his own, however, and Castiel dropped the hand quickly, noting that Bobby registered the gesture and cleared his throat.

"Look after yourself Dean." He didn't bother to address Castiel and they showed themselves out. Dean shoved his hands in his pockets as they exited the bar and stayed silent until they reached it, unlocking the door for Castiel and straightening his leather jacket as he slides into the driver's seat.

Castiel let him be on the ride home, noting how the color gradually returned to his cheeks and his eyes lost their droopy quality. Half an hour in, Dean summoned the energy to ask Castiel to provide him with a cassette from a rough-looking tin box housing an assortment of mixed tapes. He picked at one blindly and inserted it into the car's stereo. Without regard to Castiel's potential preferences, Dean turned the volume loud, and proceeded to stare blankly ahead as what could only be described as "mullet rock" blared aggressively through the car's speakers.


	3. So gracefully

**CHAPTER THREE**

"So he's cagey, what's new?"

Meg crossed her arms from where she appraised Castiel across his desk, her ankle thumping at its edge. In his cup – that which Meg had brought him from the staff room during her "drop in" - Castiel's coffee rippled with the force of her irritation, and while he stared at the disturbance meaningfully, she made no move to cease.

"He's distrusting."

"He's overcompensating."

"Hm."

Meg crossed her legs to match her arms and leaned back in her chair, mouth rotating around a suspicious grin.

"Has he said anything... about you?"

"Not since the first occasion."

Meg's chest pulsed with a laugh, and her eyes hooded as she stared at Castiel. "Doing his research then?"

"I suspect so."

Meg's nose twitched and her mouth followed the movement. The slight disruption to her expression was accentuated by the vibrant red of her lipstick against the pale sheen of her foundation. However, she was content to leave the conversation without more in the interim, and instead she pulled herself from her chair, surveying Castiel's back wall of bookcases. As she stood, her torso came into his line of sight and she stretched, leaning backwards and pressing her arms against invisible walls at her side. The movement twisted the fabric of her shirt and pulled it away from the rim of her jeans, bringing a bare slither of her midriff into Castiel's view. He looked up just in time to catch it, and Meg's stomach immediately jumped with laughter.

"Quit creeping, Clarence."

"I wasn-"

"Pft."

Castiel immediately turned back to his laptop, and hastily moved to type a nonsense sentence into an open email. Meg shifted out of his vision, moving around his desk to clap a hand on his shoulder. "If you're getting twisty, I've got a friend called Daphne you'd get along famously with."

She'd turned away before Castiel even had a chance to make an indignant response, and moved to his bookcases, running her fingers across the titles there. Castiel swallowed down a jibe of irritation, and turned back to his email. Meg had earned the right to traipse dangerously, and she knew it. She hummed as she pulled out a title and searched its back.

"Freud on the psychology of dreams? Really?"

Castiel deleted his previous nonsensical sentence, in favour of typing out a more legitimate response to the student that had emailed, asking for an appointment to discuss any essay grade. Meg tapped the book against her palm while she waited him out, before raising her eyebrows when he turned to look at her.

"It's as close to a holy text that our profession has."

Meg rolled her eyes. "He's discredited."

"Be that as it may."

Castiel sniffed and hit send, before opening the window to his outlook calendar and marking an appointment for the next Tuesday. Meg shrugged and moved behind Castiel's chair, brushing past his head with her hip in the process, and commenced examination of his second bookshelf.

"You know, Amelia phoned me yesterday. About the 20th."

"What about the 20th?"

"Some party. Housewarming, actually."

Castiel rubbed at his nose absently and Meg didn't bother to turn around to register his reaction.

"Are you going?" he asked.

"She wasn't phoning to invite me. She was phoning to invite you."

Castiel paused in his scrolling and turned to Meg, head tilting in the universal expression of confusion.

"Why would she invite me through you?"

Meg rolled her neck in a full circle of annoyance, before she answered in a drawl: "Apparently you're not answering your home phone, mobile or email. Short of lodging her invitation through LinkedIn, she's exhausted the routes of social nicety."

Castiel rubbed at his nose again – the itch having been accentuated by the first attempt – and looked away, leaning forward to recommence typing. He couldn't see Meg's expression, but were he able to, he was sure it would be twisted into a scowl.

"So, are you going to go?"

"Perhaps. It will depend upon my schedule."

"I think she wants you to be there."

"Mm."

Castiel looked away from his computer screen for a moment, and reached for a pen, scrawling the same appointment in his diary. Afterwards, he spun in his chair, searching behind him in his bookshelf for a text he had intended to peruse before commencing his first chapter about Dean. He mentally cursed himself as the book didn't materialise within reach. The last time he had seen the book had been before Christmas – he must have neglected his filing system in a moment of careless disorganisation.

"Are you two no longer speaking?"

Castiel's fingers twitched before him, and he quickly swivelled his chair to look at Meg, who was leaning against the bookcase. "Of course we're speaking. I saw her last fortnight."

"Oh." Meg leaned her head against the bookcase, and pressed one thumb into the pocket of her jeans. Castiel's eyes followed the movement, marvelling that there was space for her to wedge it there given the tight way they clung to her hips. Meg tutted and swivelled, and he looked away again to his desk, before she could misinterpret his attention further.

"She told me the news, you know."

Castiel stood quickly and made his way to his bookcase, scanning the higher shelves for the missing test. Meg huffed behind him and shifted, the heels of her boots clunking against the floor.

"What? Are you angry with her?"

Castiel looked down and breathed out a sigh, moving to wipe at his nose again, before looking back to Meg.

"Of course not. I'm glad she's happy. I sent a card."

Meg met his eyes and sucked her cheeks in around a silent reprimand. Castiel turned immediately back to his bookshelf, and commenced his search of the spines.

Meg didn't bother to hang around for a more forthcoming answer, correctly anticipating there wasn't one. The silence in the room quickly became heavy with the end of the conversation on poor terms, and she made a quick exit – her heels quickly thumping towards the doorway.

As she pulled it open, she turned to Castiel, and he heard her smack her lips around one response, before she changed tact and went for another. "I'll see you for dinner on Tuesday then."

Castiel nodded and turned enough so that she could see the movement, though he kept his eyes down and otherwise occupied while Meg left the room. It took another five minutes of searching to locate the book – somehow caught up between the pages of another and leaving them both malformed and creased as a result.

Castiel seated himself quickly back at his desk, and thumbed through the pages, remembering correctly that the relevant passage lay somewhere within the second chapter. Once he found it, he earmarked the page and opened a brand new document on his laptop, before quickly replicating the relevant passage and noting the reference in a footnote at the base of the page. From there, he sat backwards in his chair, staring at the blank white screen as he considered the few strains of thought he had to work with, and contemplating which might logically precede the other. Amongst those considerations, however, wove the unpleasant sense of irritation that arose at being confronted with a topic that had been shelved for later attention. Castiel's eyes drifted to the right of his desk, where a gilded frame housed a scrawled depiction of a person in red felt tip, with hands larger than its head, and a scowling smile that ran further than the perimeter of his face. Beneath the image was drawn a shaky: "Cl". Castiel swallowed momentarily as he looked upon it, before turning back to his screen and wiping a hand across his mouth. He did not shift for another two hours, once he commenced typing – fingers furiously tapping out an account of his preliminary visits with Dean in abrupt but credible shorthand.

...

Castiel received a text from Dean the next day: "At station. Appt w Bobby 12pm. U cmn?" The text came in the middle of a tutorial, and Castiel – so unused to receiving contact via his mobile phone – jumped when it buzzed atop his desk. His class smirked at his being caught out, given his usual strictness on the presence of mobile phones during his lectures, but a blank stare was enough to silence them and turn their attention back to the class material.

The tutorial wrapped at 11.30am, earlier than usual but late enough that Castiel was flustered by the time he arrived at the police station. Upon arriving, he was in such a hurry that he didn't even take the time to drop his keys in his satchel, instead slinging a knuckle through the keyring and holding them in his hand. There were further delays when he arrived at the reception, since the staff were reluctant to lead Castiel through the offices with Bobby's say-so. Bobby himself took some time to appear, clearly already preoccupied with Dean's arrival.

Eventually, he materialised behind the main desk and waved a hand for Castiel to be let through. A junior officer quickly hurried to unlock the door to behind the desk, by which time Bobby had already commenced striding down a poorly dimensioned and fluorescently lit corridor. He ignored Castiel as he loped after him in an effort to catch up, aside from making a few pointed grumbles about the delay of a police investigation.

Dean, however, was plenty pleased to see Castiel and rose from the seat across the desk where he had been sitting, before shrugging his shoulders and sitting back down again when neither a handshake or a hug seemed appropriate. Bobby silently pulled up a chair for Castiel, situating it pointedly in the corner of the room – almost in shadow, and seating himself in the chair opposite Dean.

The room was dim, with a paltry desk lamp as its only lighting. When Bobby caught Castiel's gaze hovering on it, he gritted his teeth and eked out: "budget cuts", before turning back to Dean and leaning forward to a Dictaphone situated at the centre of the table.

His finger hovered over the red record button momentarily, and when Dean's eyebrows raised in question he turned back to Castiel and narrowed his eyes. "You have to stay quiet. This is an official investigation."

Castiel pressed his lips together and nodded, and ducked his head to his lap, where he twined his hands together. Bobby had not given permission for notetaking, and based on their last meeting, Castiel thought the better of doing so confidently as to assume. Bobby's expression changed as he turned back to Dean, and pressed the button, before leaning forward and projecting his voice towards it.

"Mr Winchester, you understand that a recordin' will be taken of this session for the purposes of completeness?"

Dean looks up to Bobby and tilted his head, mouthing "really?" with an incredulous expression. Bobby merely nodded abruptly towards the microphone and Dean deflated, conceding, and leaned forward to speak.

"Yeah."

"And you understand that the Kansas police department does not employ the services of mediums?"

Dean rolled his eyes: "Yeah."

"But you have come to us willingly to offer your services?"

"Yeah." Dean emphasised the last word with petulance, and Bobby dropped his chin low, so that he was eyeballing Dean across the table. Dean raised his eyebrows, but his face was serious as he pursed his lips and clasped his hands before him, running his tongue across his lips once before pressing them together.

"Then you can begin."

Dean twiddled the thumbs of his clasped hands, before leaning towards the recorder, eyes fixed on Bobby. Bobby ignored his gaze in favour of flicking his eyes over to Castiel, and giving him a threatening glare with a slight shake of his head. Castiel merely inclined his head in response, and squinted at Bobby, who narrowed his eyes before looking back to Dean.

"The... spirit of Jo Harvelle has visited me."

"Jo?"

"Joanna. But she told me she prefers Jo."

Bobby's lip twitched, but he stared evenly enough at Dean and gave an encouraging nod.

"I see. Continue."

Dean swallowed, and turned his gaze to look at Castiel once, an eyebrow raising with the effort of turning his gaze beyond his shoulder. He shuffled in his seat slightly, blinking once, before turning back and mirroring Bobby and leaning towards the Dictaphone.

"She came to me – I think she believes I can help."

"What did she say?"

Dean licked his lips again and drummed his fingers against the table.

"She's still... still confused. She's still struggling to accept that she's dead."

"How are you sure she is?" Bobby's expression portrayed a different sentiment than his tone. His face was open and eyes wide at Dean's revelation, but his diction was sharp –almost scolding. Despite the cordial relationship between them, which Castiel was sure meant the expression was understood, Dean still tilted his head to the side in irritation. Bobby ignored him and brushed at his moustache, nodding at the tape recorder blandly, and avoiding giving Dean anything to fixate on.

"She wouldn't have appeared to me if she weren't." Dean breathed out in exasperation. "Look, it doesn't matter. She shows up, middle of the night, shirt torn open and bruises around her neck and her wrists. Hair tangled, dirt all over her. And she keeps saying 'not him not him not him'. Over and over. For three hours." He wound his fingers together and placed them directly in front of him. "She's trying to tell you you've got the wrong guy in custody. And she's pissed."

Bobby grimaced and hung his head, wiping a tired hand across rough stubble. Even across the room, the gesture was audible. As he looked up to meet Dean's eyes, Bobby's mouth twisted and he bared his teeth momentarily – as though in pain – before responding with a low, even voice and a tinge of disdain.

"Did the spirit say anything else?"

"That she's in the dark. And the damp. She kept talking about these... she called them witch's claws. Don't step on the witch's claws."

Dean unwound his hands and let the tips of his fingers drum against the table. His lips continued to move around the words, even though his voice dropped out, and his brow furrowed. Bobby bristled across the table and leaned forward, arm reaching over the Dictaphone, to nudge Dean back into focus.

Dean recollected himself quickly, gaze flickering from the table's surface to Bobby's face, though his lips puckered around a question before his expression relaxed and he shook his head.

"The spirits... they get confused, on the other side. They give you associations... kind of... like talking to someone who's just woken up from surgery. They're all over the place."

Bobby rubbed at his chin and stared at Dean across the table. "So, what? You think the sprit is trying to describe something to you?"

Dean nodded quickly, even though Bobby's words were ridden with disbelief.

"I think she's trying to tell us where she is. But even she's not sure. She's still so afraid to think about what happened. I can't..." He pressed his face into his waiting palms, and breathed out carefully, before a jolt ran through his body and sent his palms slamming down to the table.

Castiel and Bobby both jumped, but the action seemed to startle Dean more than anyone – his eyes went to his palms after the fact and he stared at them, wide-eyed.

Bobby quickly leaned forward and murmured: "Interview terminated, 12.52pm." With a quick press, he flicked off the Dictaphone and moved around the table to rest a palm on Dean's shoulder. "It's ok kid. You did good."

Dean rubbed his hand across his eyes a few times. Castiel stood himself, and moved closer to the table, but stopped short of interfering with the exchange. The sound of his movement triggered Dean's attention, and his gaze snapped to Castiel quickly. His eyes were a little bleary – like he'd been asleep – and he surveyed Castiel without care for hiding the act. However, when his eyes flickered a little to Castiel's right, he grunted and rubbed a hand back across his eyes again, before turning back to stare stubbornly at the surface of the table. Castiel turned mildly to observe the sight behind him, but there was nothing but empty darkness in the interview room.

"D'you think she'll come back?"

"She will. But I don't think I'll get anything more from her that way. She won't remember anything else until she faces it, and she won't move on till then."

Castiel shifted from one foot to the other, while Bobby moved to pocket the recorder, and returned to Dean's side.

"You'll call me, if she comes again?"

"'Course."

Bobby clapped Dean on the shoulder once, before hauling him up by his arm. "Just gotta fill out some paperwork. You'll be free to go in a minute."

"Yeah, sure. I'll be here."

Bobby stood straight, and threw Castiel a quick look, before moving to exit the room. Dean stayed quiet for a little while, but he ran his hand vigorously through bristly hair, before asking – to the table more than Castiel, in a falsely cheery voice: "So, how you imagined it?"

Castiel watched Dean for a moment, before conceding: "I have never witnessed a police interview before."

He moved to Bobby's chair and settled himself opposite him. He noted that Dean's posture visibly relaxed when he moved away from the corner, and he was more ready to look at Castiel, though his smile was plastered.

"How often do you find yourself in this room, Dean?"

Dean shuffled and looked back at his hands. "This one, never. Other ones, all over. I never really stick enough in one place to see anything too much. Usually cops aren't so open-minded as here. Not always here because they want help, you know?"

Dean offered a grim smile as the rest of his explanation, and ran his thumb across the side of his lips, still wet with spit from where he had nervously been licking at them. A silence fell, which Castiel didn't feel obliged to fill, and Dean punctured by shifting his jaw from left to right – with each quick movement, it gave a small pop and Dean blinked in irritation. With a scratch to the side of his jaw, he looked back to Castiel and offered mildly: "So you ditched all your kids today, just for me?"

"I left my graduate students early, yes. They will be grateful. I assigned them a rather large essay this week."

Dean clicked his tongue behind his teeth and leaned forward. "You a strict professor?"

Castiel mirrored Dean's posture and leaned forward slightly. "I don't consider myself particularly so, but I am sometimes criticised my members of the faculty for setting too strenuous a curriculum."

Dean poked his tongue through the inside of his cheek and grinned a little. "I can believe that."

It occurred to Castiel as Dean's eyes squinted through his amusement, that we was not a great deal older than some of Castiel's graduate students. Certainly, his appearance did not reflect that – he was haggard in a way they were not, despite his conventional attractiveness. But, in actuality, Dean was nearly ten years Castiel's junior. In spite of his misgivings as to Dean's abilities, he mused, Dean certainly had the credence in appearance of somebody far more senior. Castiel, for all that he could mentally reward such behaviours, was impressed.

Bobby entered back through the door without knocking, and Dean sprung backwards as though he had been caught in a circumstance far more damaging. "You're good to go, boys."

Dean stood and Bobby reached to shake his hand officiously. "Thanks, Dean. And if you hear anything more, you call me, you hear?"

"''Course," Dean mumbled and shoved his hands deep into his pockets when Bobby lets go, shuffling on his feet. Bobby's handshake for Castiel was gruff and certainly without the warmness, but he did concede a small "I'll be seeing you soon," before he lead them silently from the police station.

Dean stopped them on the front steps of the station, as his throat became constricted with a cough, and he hunched over to hack out the spasm before looking back to Castiel with watery eyes. "Jesus Christ, I need a drink. You think anything's open?"

Castiel's brow furrowed as Dean straightened, and Dean rolled his eyes. "I don't mean alcohol, dick. I'm just coughing my lungs up here. Orange juice'll be fine."

He cleared his throat and rolled his shoulders, before casting his eyes down the street to where a three metre high, internally lit sign proclaimed the opportunity for fast food. "Cops would set up near Biggerson's" Dean murmured with vague amusement, before turning back to Castiel.

"You coming?"

Castiel checked his wristwatch under Dean's expectant gaze. It was well past lunchtime, and he was hungry. And if Dean were in a talkative mood, it made sense to stay. Dean politely didn't mention his having to wait out Castiel's though process when Castiel eventually nodded his assent and fell into step beside him.

Dean entered Biggerson's like he was returning home, dropping to a booth with splayed limbs and sighing. He ordered without even glancing at the menu, although Castiel pored over it cautiously as the waitress stared on, tapping her pen against her notepad. Unhelpfully, the menu expected the restaurant's clientele to have acquaintance with its options, since each dish was only labelled with a vague title: "Turducken Slammer". Only the final option on the menu, situated almost grudgingly at the bottom, was marked with an asterisk and a miniscule declaration: "(Vegetarian)".

Dean, after an uncomfortable pause, registered his confusion, for he clicked his tongue to attract Castiel's attention and asked cheerily: "You like cheeseburgers?"

Castiel nodded, and Dean rattled off some Biggerson's slang to the waitress. Despite her obvious impatience with Castiel, she was quick to throw Dean a flirtatious smile as she leaned across the table to retrieve his menu.

The setting was awkward – the surroundings too garish for what remained a professional meeting. The acquaintance, however, was too unfamiliar for any more social discussion, at least in Castiel's view, and he stared down at the table awkwardly, fiddling with a peeling layer of varnish.

Dean seemed less perturbed, leaning across the table and pointing to Castiel's satchel beside him: "Why do you lug that old thing around anyway? It makes you look like a dorky college professor."

"I am a college professor."

Dean inclined his head and chuckled: "Doesn't mean you have to be a dorky one."

Castiel shrugged and adjusted his hands before him, interlacing his fingers and resting the edge of his wrists against the table.

"It was a gift."

"From someone who hates you?"

Castiel quickly looked away, and his hand moved to thumb at the strap of the satchel beneath the table. "Quite the contrary."

Dean paused for a moment, and his mouth puckered, but he leaned back in his chair easily enough and slung his arm over its back.

"So, you been teachin' long?"

"Ten years."

Dean whistled, impressed. "Jeez, how old even are you?"

"Thirty seven."

Dean's eyebrows raised slightly and his expression dropped. "Oh."

Their waitress returned with two colas. Castiel ignored his – certain he hadn't ordered one- and Dean snickered, taking a gargantuan sip of his own, and setting it down with a wet sigh and smacking his lips.

"So you're-"

"Dean?"

A voice rang out from behind Castiel, and as he shifted to acknowledge its owner, Castiel became caught by Dean's reaction. Dean froze, mid-playful shift of his head towards whatever joke he had intended to throw at Castiel next, and his lips pursed around the beginnings of a smile. Then, slowly but surely and with an audible squeeze, he deflated. With a certain reluctance, his eyes dragged from Castiel's, upwards, although there was recognition in their expression already, and Dean prepared himself – sitting up a little straighter and straining to hold the amused expression on his face even as it twitched for escape.

Beside him, Castiel felt the shift of a body, which stepped forwards and took the face of its owner from view. Castiel noted, however, that hidden behind its back was a fist clenched around nerves.

Dean's mouth twitched – pulling it momentarily into an expression less friendly than that he was trying to concoct his face into – and he lifted two solitary fingers from the back of the chair in greeting. "Hey Aaron."

There was a beat as Dean and the man appraised each other, before Dean's fingers twitched and he pointed in Castiel's direction. "This is, uh, Cas."

The slender man between them turned vaguely in Castiel's direction, and gave a half-hearted nod, but Castiel scarcely had time to raise his gaze to look at him, before he was turning back to stare at Dean. "What- what are you doing here? I thought you were living in Kentucky?"

Dean shot a quick glance towards Castiel, and licked his lips quickly. "Moved here a few months ago. Just... needed a new start, you know?"

The hand hidden behind Aaron's back twitched lightly, but he breathed carefully and kept his body relaxed. Dean, it seemed, failed to notice the bodily prompts that betrayed Aaron's nervousness, and his gaze stayed fixed on Aaron's face – brow furrowed.

"Worked out for you?"

The question seemed innocent enough, but Dean's face dropped and his eyes flickered towards Castiel again. His mouth opened and closed twice, before he stumbled over his answer: "Yes... no, I mean, well-"

"That's good. Hey, well I don't want to interrupt. I'll see you around sometime?"

The man extricated his hand from behind his back and rapped on the table with his knuckles twice. Then he raised his hand and waved them both goodbye, with a solitary flick of his wrist. Dean swallowed as he walked away, and cleared his throat while staring down at the table, twisting his hands. For a moment, Deans' gaze ventured up to Castiel's, but he held it only for a moment, before he turned and followed the path of the man who spoke to them, as he made his way to the diner cashier, and placed his order. Aaron threw a quick glance back in their direction, which he quickly retracted when he realised both were still staring at him, and he moved to seat himself in the far corner of the diner.

"Sorry about that."

Castiel looked back to see Dean shrugging his shoulders and reaching to take a sip of his drink, before letting his fingers stay behind to fiddle with the rim of his glass.

"Not at all."

Dean didn't appear to hear Castiel as he ran his fingers around the lid of the glass, and his leg commenced jostling beneath the table.

"If you wish to catch up with your friend, there is no need to stop on my behalf."

Dean's leg didn't cease its bouncing, but he moved his eyes to Castiel's once and watched him momentarily, before chuckling. Leaning forward, he took another sip of his drink, and laid his elbows on the table – letting his head shift from side to side atop his neck.

Castiel twisted his head in a silent question, and Dean was quick to answer: "Not very astute for a psychologist, Cas."

The abrupt use of a nickname aside, Castiel paused for a moment, before answering: "What do you mean?"

Dean's mouth twitched into a smile at his right cheek, and he tilted his head as he looked back to Castiel, face twisting into a grimace of disbelief. Castiel only surveyed his expression, and, with a wink, Dean leaned forward and whispered lightly: "He's a bit more than an old friend." As soon as he was done, his eyes flickered back to where Aaron was sitting, and he moved back into a position of non-chalance.

There was a beat before Castiel's head tilts back involuntarily, in a motion that recognised a dawning of understanding. "Oh. I see."

He avoided giving a more significant answer than that, leaving the ball in Dean's court to abandon or continue the line of conversation. Book writing aside, Dean was entitled to keep the matter a private one, and as far as Castiel was concerned, the scope of their professional relationship did not need to address any matter of sexuality – at least so far. Dean's amusement led to curiosity though, and with a barely concealed glance back to Aaron, he quirked a smile at Castiel.

"Surprised you didn't catch that...with all your academic tricks."

Castiel rubbed at his chin for a moment, itchy under Dean's gaze, and reached to take a sip of his drink. "It's not a matter that is pertinent to our exchanges – sexual orientation does not have to be particularly associated with any behavioural trait aside from the direction of one's physical interest. I have not been observing you with a view to making a conclusion in that regard."

Dean's lips followed Castiel's wording as his brow furrowed – clearly, part of the statement was lost on him. Nonetheless, he seemed to gather the gist of Castiel's response from his tone and rolled his eyes. "Hey, you're not the only one. Everyone assumes I'm straight. I did too."

The invitation to the topic was an obvious one, and Castiel fell into the automatic route of allowing Dean to carve out the path of conversation. Even if it were not necessary to his study, any inclination of camaraderie from Dean was sufficient to pursue for his purposes.

"Until you met Aaron?"

Dean nodded vaguely. "Yeah. Was at a bar one night – some psychic convention shit. He offered to buy me a drink. Not the first time a guy hit on me – used to happen all the time actually. But... well, it was the first time I got kinda flustered by it. Next thing I know, we're back at my apartment and his hands are down my pants."

His eyes flickered up to Castiel in a kind of challenge – even if that weren't obvious from the crudeness of the statement. Nonetheless, Castiel stayed stoic and didn't move to betray any sign of shock, distaste or even interest. Dean seemed satisfied with that, although he kept his eyes carefully on Castiel's face as he took a sip of his drink, as though watching for a belated crack in his demeanour. When there was none, he continued lightly: "together for about six months after that."

Castiel nodded, still implacable, and allowed Dean the luxury of a quick glance over his shoulder (looking away when Dean's gaze returned to give him the illusion that the surreptitious moment had been a private one).

"How long has it been since you've seen him?"

Dean bit his lip, and his fingers rolled into a fist – a finger extended for every year that he counted out silently. "Couple'a years."

He smacked his lips together after that, and his heel thumped against the ground beneath the table. Castiel shuffled in his seat, hooking his wrist through the strap of his satchel, before moving to stand.

"I need to get back to the University, in any case."

"What?"

Dean quickly shuffled upwards to follow Castiel, and his hand worried at the edge of his jacket.

"You haven't even-"

"I'll take it to go."

Castiel raised a hand and called over the waitress. Dean's eyes flashed as he stole another glance at Aaron's table. The space between the booth's seat and table was minimal, and Dean shuffled awkwardly as he stood opposite Castiel, forced to lean forward slightly and send his hips backward in order to fit comfortably within the space.

"But-"

Castiel passed two notes into the waitress' hands as she arrived, and murmured: "I'll take mine to go, please." She was the flirtatious assistant from before, and she smiled coyly again at Dean as she departed, though he failed to acknowledge her.

"You should go and see your friend, Dean. I will be in touch about our next meeting."

He slung his satchel over the shoulder and slid from the booth, before Dean had the chance to protest. Dean's cheeks flushed, and he quickly slid out of the booth too, pressing his lips together and swallowing heavily. The way he hovered near Castiel, and made no move to end the conversation, made it clear that he was wishing for an excuse to leave with him. But Castiel offered him none, aside from dropping his gaze to the floor and murmuring: "He is nervous to be in your company, Dean. With your skills I would have assumed you would have noticed that."

Flustered as he was, Dean didn't even manage a snappy retort, before the waitress returned with Castiel's change and a tin foil container wrapped in the shape of a swan. Castiel took the package but waved the waitress off for the change, and she dropped it to the front of her apron with a quick "thanks" and a bright smile.

Dean shuffled on the balls of his feet, and he brought a hand to the back of his neck to rub at it. "Yeah, um, ok... so you'll call?"

"Of course."

Castiel didn't bother for a more significant farewell, other than a light nod to Dean who didn't register it – his gaze having already turned back to Aaron. He made his way silently to the heavy glass door, and pushed it open, throwing one last gaze in Dean's direction in time to see him amble over to Aaron's booth, hands jammed in his pockets. Aaron looked up, and shuddered, and Dean stiffened, before giving a small smile and gesturing to the chair opposite Aaron's. He seated himself while Castiel turned away, and slid through the doors, fingers moving up the neck of his swan and folding the tin foil down flat across the lid of the container.

...

That afternoon, Castiel managed to turn his shorthand draft of the first chapter of Dean's study into a legible format – at least for his purposes. It wasn't until late-evening that his stomach prompted his attention – the Biggerson's offering having been surprisingly filling for fast food. He rose reluctantly from his work, long enough to remove a plastic container from the freezer and deposit it in the microwave. While the disk inside shuddered around on long-since expired wheels, Castiel turned back to his laptop and stared at it, running his hand alongside his jaw.

He ignored the first few rings of his mobile in favour of retrieving the plastic packet from the microwave, and hastily dropping it onto a waiting tray, waving his hands in the air clownishly to dispel the burning on their surface. A quick glance at the phone, however, was enough to change his course of action when he registered the name on the display and – unfortunately, not entirely without irritation – raised it to his ear and murmured: "Hello Dean."

"C-Castiel? The Professor?"

Castiel started at the unfamiliar voice, and swallowed quickly, pausing in his movements to bring the tray back to his desk.

"Yes, who is this?"

There was a beat on the end of the line and the sound of a few rushed breaths.

"Aaron. From the diner...Dean's friend."

Castiel's eyebrows raised, and he pushed the tray further into the depth of his kitchen counter, turning and leaning against its edge.

"Yes. I remember you. Can I help you?"

Aaron swallowed and stuttered on the end of the line, before murmuring quietly: "You're his friend right?"

"I'm a colleague."

"A psychologist?"

"Yes."

There was a pause as Aaron took a deep breath, and he ground out his nervous answer: "I'm really sorry to phone this late at night, but... I need your help."

...

Aaron gave him directions, and Castiel accepted them mutely, rather than correcting the misunderstanding. Given Dean's previous relationship with him, it might have seemed untoward to Aaron that Castiel had already been to Dean's home.

When he arrived at Dean's, the clock on Castiel's dashboard read 11.48pm. Aaron opened the front door before Castiel had even shut the door of his car, and he sidled out to the porch, crossing his arms. A few raindrops fell atop Castiel as he hurried to the porch, and Aaron stepped aside, allowing him to shrug off his trenchcoat in the hallway, and fumble when he remembered there was no coat rack upon which he could deposit it. Castiel turned in anticipation of Aaron's explanation for a midnight call-out (which he hadn't bothered to give on the phone). He stopped though, when he saw Aaron pulling his own coat from the floor and over his shoulders hastily, simultaneously shoving his feet back into his dress shoes.

"You're leaving?

Aaron's eyes shifted away from Castiel's and he stared at the ground as he wound a scarf around his neck. When he was done, he brought his phone to his face and began scrolling aimlessly though its contents, keeping his eyes fixed at any point that wasn't Castiel.

"Look, I'm... I've got somewhere to be."

"At midnight?"

Castiel's tone was bland, but Aaron started and his finger stopped whizzing atop his phone's screen. He backed away a step and raised his hands to the unadorned hallway. "Look, man... I thought that maybe... when he said he'd been seeing you, maybe he'd gotten some help..."

He turned to face Castiel and quailed slightly, though Castiel was uncertain why.

"You're writing a book about him, right? You want to see what it's like day-to-day? Well, this is it. And it's too much, ok?"

Even though his gaze dropped from Castiel's, his expression and posture turned to aggravation, and he shuffled on his feet towards the door. Shaking his head, he buttoned up his coat, and slid past Castiel who stepped aside belatedly and held the door open for him.

The rain had started to fall thicker and heavier in the minute Castiel had been inside, and it hung in a sheet of noise above them. Aaron's eyes dropped to the two misshapen umbrellas in the corner of the hallway, but a quick glance at Castiel's expression had him thinking the better of it, and backing away from the porch."

"Look, it's not that... it's just... you're the professional, you can help him right? It's _your _job."

Castiel took a step out into the threshold and Aaron backed away, one step away from being drenched by the fat raindrops that fell in a burst to commence pounding on the footpath outside.

"It is my job to analyse the psychology of a patient, identify errors in the cognitive process and reprogram behaviours where possible. Whether my kind of work will assist Dean is a mystery to me."

Aaron's eyes widened at Castiel's response, and his lips moved a few times, before he muttered. "Look... he's upstairs in the bathroom. Let me... let me know that's ok?"

Castiel didn't answer, and Aaron whirled quickly on his heel, striding down through Dean's bare garden and jogging to a rusted hatchback behind which Castiel had parked. Castiel didn't bother to call after him that he had left no contact details for such an assurance, in the event Dean was well. He suspected that Aaron's words had been a feeble attempt only at dismissing whatever he assumed Castiel considered he was guilty of. Castiel shut the door before waiting that Aaron was safely to his car.

Despite Dean's failure to instruct previously, Castiel placed his foot on the heel of his shoes, and pulled them off, padding down the hallway in socks alone. He passed the kitchen, where he noted two half-empty glasses that might have housed whiskey, bourbon or scotch (it was impossible to tell at the distance) adorning the still messy dining table.

He detoured in there momentarily, searching for any sign of the episode that Aaron had so callously left undescribed. Upstairs, he heard a thud to mark Dean's presence, and he looked up to the ceiling above him for betrayal of any further answer. When there was none, he moved back out of the kitchen, and made his way cautiously up the stairs. On one step, he almost tangled himself and tripped in a T-shirt when had been left strewn there. A quick examination resulted in familiarity – it was the shirt that Dean had been wearing earlier that morning beneath his jacket.

As he reached the top of the stairs, he took care to ensure the sound of his arrival was audible to Dean. Only one door was closed, and a quick survey of those left open and their contents made clear it was the door to the bathroom that Dean was behind. That was corroborated by the visible slither of light that illuminated the gap between the base of the door and the ratty carpet below. Castiel advanced carefully and knocked on the door twice.

"Dean?"

Dean didn't bother to respond to his whisper, but he did shuffle inside. Castiel gripped the handle and attempted to rotate it, but was unsurprised when he found it wouldn't budge. He gave it a slight rattle, just to be sure, and another whispered "Dean?" on the slim offchance Dean had missed the first.

At the second prompting, Dean gave an answering soft moan. Castiel pressed carefully against the doorway, searching for a further hint of what he might currently be undergoing. There was a wash of relief at his gut though, at the implicit understanding as he heard Dean groan again, that he was hearing an unformed statement (likely slurred with alcohol) rather than a declaration of pain or fear.

"Dean, it's Castiel. Will you talk to me?"

Dean didn't move inside the bathroom, and Castiel leaned lower, so he was speaking through the keyhole: "Dean. I understand if you do not wish to speak, but it would reassure me greatly to know that you are alright."

There was long pause, and then a murmured "yes" on the other side of the door. That was Dean's sole offering, apart from a light shuffle that marked Dean's movement around the bathroom within. There was no further indication, aside from that single shift, that Dean intended to move further from his position, and Castiel leaned back from the door, raising his head to the ceiling and sighing.

"Dean, when you feel ready, I will be waiting here to talk to you. Please let me know if there is anything that I can do in the interim."

Dean didn't respond except to shift again, and after a few minutes of waiting, Castiel slid down the wall to seat himself on the rough carpet. A few minutes later he heard the sound of running water, and its splash as Dean interfered with its flow – presumably for drinking or washing. The water stopped abruptly with the trill of polyphonic notes from the lounge. Dean shifted again inside the bathroom, and his voice was soft and uncertain as he called: "Cas, if you're there, can you get that please?"

Castiel obliged with a soft "yes", and made his way downstairs, trailing a hand across the peeling wallpaper for balance. Dean's phone was wedged in between the cushions on his couch – a fact that Castiel hadn't realised until he had upturned the majority of Dean's coffee table in search of it. Eventually, however, he located it and extracted it, and while he fumbled momentarily with the unfamiliar keys, he managed to answer it and raised the phone to his ear: "Dean Winchester's phone."

"Who's that? That professor? What the hell are you doing out with him at this time?"

Bobby's gruff tone was immediately recognisable on the end of the line, and Castiel breathed out carefully as he answers:

"Castiel, yes. Dean is a little unwell at present. May I take a message?"

"He's gonna wanna hear this, boy. You best get him."

Castiel moved to the base of the stairwell and he cast his eyes to the locked bathroom door. Dean still remained inside, and there was no movement in the room that indicated he intended to do otherwise than stay there. He licked his lips, before moving back to the kitchen and repeating into the cellphone: "He's not well at present."

Bobby's huff on the end of the line practically blew into Castiel's ear, and his brow furrowed around the beginnings of a tension headache. He brought his fingers to the bridge of his nose and pinched there lightly.

"I'm sorry, Bobby. I can only offer to take a message at this stage."

Bobby growled once on the end of the line, but he seemed to believe him well enough, and sighed. "Guess he's already gotten the news then, one way or the other. But you can tell him, when he's 'better'. We found the body."

The staircase creaked above him and Castiel quickly poked his head out the kitchen door to witness Dean standing hunched at the top of the staircase and pressing himself against the wall for support, eyes wide and lip trembling. Castiel didn't even bother to hang up the phone call, although he did deposit it carefully on the kitchen counter as he moved out into the hallway and to the base of the staircase. Dean stared at him momentarily, eyes awash with a bleary misery, before he sunk slowly until he was seated on the uppermost step, cradling his face in his hands.

...

It only took an hour for the late night news to catch up with them. A shaky camera, pointed between an assembly of police cars, broadcasted the blurry image of a stretcher covered with a white sheet being escorted from the line of a forest by two men in puffer jackets. Dean sat on his couch mutely and cradled a nearly full glass of whiskey in a loose hold. The angle at which he held the glass meant the liquid was only millimetres away from damaging Dean's carpet. Castiel hoped for that eventuality, in any case, since it seemed like it would do less damage there than it was doing to Dean.

A news reporter, fighting aggressive gusts of wind, spoke hurriedly into the microphone, speculating that the police had indeed discovered the body of Joanna Harvelle - missing girl. At her name, Dean snorted and thunked his head back on the couch, squeezing his eyes shut and pursing his lips.

In the blast of silence that followed when Castiel switched the television off, he couldn't find the space to leave, instead merely sitting studiously and examining the way Dean's body twisted upon itself as he curled closer into the couch. Several hours later, when Castiel was convinced Dean was asleep, and he made to move back to the kitchen, Dean saw fit to utter a few words.

"The first time he left it was the same reason. Me. Too much to deal with."

Dean traced the tip of his finger around his glass, drawing out a faint ring at the contact. The corner of his mouth quirked and he chuckle as he appraised it: "You know, I don't even like whiskey."

He pulled the glass to his mouth, took three quick gulps, and let it drop to the carpet carelessly. The liquid immediately sunk into the carpet – leaving a wet circular patch stained amber.

"When I met him, he loved what I could do. I was... I was 24. Hot new kid on the medium block. One of my first conventions." Dean shuffled on the couch, and pulled his knees up to his chest. "Aaron, he reads crystals, or some bogus shit like that. He's always wished he could be like me."

Castiel said nothing, except to lean back into the couch, letting the tension at an impending departure leave his stature.

"Picked up me up at a bar that night. It was... nice, having someone believe me, believe _in me _about what I could do. My last girlfriend, she didn't..."

Dean trailed off and Castiel swallowed, before pursuing cautiously.

"You had a previous partner leave you because of your ability?"

Dean tilted his head to the side, still staring at the television, and laughed darkly. "This isn't a session, Cas. Put your notepad away."

Castiel stared for a second as Dean arched an eyebrow at him, and responded by leaning forward and taking a sip of the wine that Dean had poured him, despite his protests, two hours previously.

"Yeah. Before Aaron. Cassie. When I told her... she walked out."

Dean leaned back in his chair and watched Castiel with a careful stare.

"It was all rainbows and smiles for a while. Told me he loved me, if you can believe it."

Dean brought a hand to his forehead and wiped it down his face. He succeeded only in dragging its features down with the path of his hand, and his eyes dropped as he continued, voice cracking

"The first few times the spirits came, he was so into it. He'd come with me while I worked cases. Meetin' people, helpin' them."

He looked towards Castiel, and his neck popped with the exertion of the awkward twist.

"After a while, it all got too much. He thought they'd just be at my beck and call. Not all the time. Everywhere. Not when we were..."

Dean's fingers moved to fiddle with a stray thread at his trousers, and Castiel bristled – unwilling to push Dean further.

"Always the same. It's always the same."

"So tonight, Aaron left because...?"

"What? Because I kissed him? Because I couldn't get it up? Or because while he was tryin' to get me off I saw Jo Harvelle with her jeans undone and bruises around her neck crying in the corner, stinking of dirt and blood and piss? Who the fuck knows? It doesn't fucking matter."

Castiel swallowed lightly and wiped at his nose. His head was pounding, and he felt a phantom itch there that marked the commencement of a virus making itself known. "You told Aaron you saw her?"

Dean shook his head, sneering at his own words: "It was pretty obvious."

He hung his head and rested two fingers on his temple, twisting them as though he could push them inside and extract the memory. There was more to the story, that was obvious, but Dean was obviously disinclined to share. Castiel let him pause, before leaning forward and taking another draught of his wine.

"They take everything from you. Not just your faith, or your hope or whatever you were hangin' onto to make it all work out. They take your life away from you, even when you're not dead yet. Until there's nothing left and you're just theirs. Until you can't even remember yourself anymore."

...

The local news reported two days later that they had taken a suspect into custody. Dean had been silent for the two days since Castiel had departed his home, after he had fallen asleep in front of the television and Castiel had snuck from his home at 3am in the morning. In leaving Dean his space, he had devoted himself to his latest chapter, and it was reaching early stages of completeness – he was content to move on.

The tranquillity of work well done was disturbed when Dean phoned Castiel – who was unable to answer his phone during the course of a lecture – and was treated to a screaming message of _not him not him _and forceful pleas that Castiel make the police "see sense."

Castiel had scarcely made his way to his office, after receiving that message, when he received another phone call - this time from Bobby. Leaving aside the fact that he had obtained Castiel's mobile number from a source other than Dean (who, by the sounds of Bobby's report, was too distressed to offer much more than profanity), Bobby demanded his immediate presence at the police station. Castiel left his office in such a hurry that he forgot even his trenchcoat, and arrived at the police station to find Dean being held in another interview room.

"Look, I aínt gonna do nothin' with him. But boy's not fit to drive, and I can't take him home myself. I haven't been home in three days."

Bobby escorted Castiel to a small interview office – far better equipped than the one he had been treated to previously. He didn't offer Castiel a seat though, staying close to the door and dropping his voice to a whisper to ensure their privacy.

"I can take him to his home. I can clear my schedule."

Whatever distrust Bobby might have had of Castiel previously, had either evaporated by negation or by necessity of the pressure on the precinct that had police jogging down the corridor outside the door. Bobby merely nodded and rubbed at a rough beard that had sprouted beneath his moustache, before closing his eyes and taking solace in a slow sigh.

"What happened?"

Bobby shook his head, eyes still closed, and scratched at his mouth.

"Turned up here, rantin' and ravin' about the kid we got in custody. Says it wasn' him, and that his spirit is _mad_. It's stacked though – we found her hair in his car. Kid was workin' the bar that night. He's the one who reported her missin'."

He opened his eyes and met Castiel's determinedly. "He a'int been wrong yet, but there's a first time for everything."

Castiel grimaced and bunched his hands at his sides.

"The man you are holding... he is a friend of hers?"

Bobby turned to Castiel, squinting, and appeared to be on the tip of launching into a lecture regarding police confidentiality. But Castiel's wide-eyed stare and otherwise bland expression seemed to assuage him, and he only sighed, dropping his voice and pacing to the other end of the room.

"Her best friend, by all accounts. Practically a brother to the family. We're testin' him now. Lookin' for DNA on the body."

Bobby wiped at his eyes and made his way back to Castiel.

"Dean's goin' mad. Sayin' we have to take him to the crime scene and that Jo wants to show him what happened. We don't have the resources right now."

Castiel sighed and leaned against the doorframe.

"Is there any chance that the man didn't do it?"

"Slim to none, at this stage. It's circumstantial, but usually these things lead to somethin'."

"Entertaining him won't do any good. In the long run, this may be for the best."

Bobby paused in his movements, to stare at Castiel momentarily. "You said you'd practiced?" Castiel didn't recall, but he nodded in any event and met Bobby's gaze as he advanced toward him slowly.

"You do right by him, then."

The words were assuring, but laced with distrust. Bobby opened the door while Castiel was still leaning against it and didn't apologise as it forced Castiel to stumble forward momentarily. He followed Bobby's path and kept his mouth carefully shut when Bobby met him with a challenging glare, before indicating down the hall.

They were keeping Dean in the farthest corner of the station, and there was a uniformed officer at the door. Bobby gave him a small nod as greeting, and the boy stepped aside to let them in. "He's leavin' now. Get back to your desk."

Dean was huddled in a blanket in another dingy interview room and hunched over the table. The room almost felt as if it were ringing in the face of a verbal assault long since dried out. There was an upended jug of water laying across the table, and puddles on all four sides. No one had thought to clean it up, and Dean was scarcely bothered although a patch of it had made its way to his t-shirt and the blanket hung around his shoulders.

Bobby's tone was gruff. "It's a favour that I kept you here, boy. Next time, it'll be a cell, and you know the boys in there are gonna have a field day over you."

Dean whirled – a snarl on his lips – that dropped at the sight of Castiel at Bobby's shoulder. He set his jaw then, jutting it forward so far that his bottom lip came up to almost encase his top lip and stood from the table. He didn't manage to balance properly the first time, and was forced to slam a blanketed hand into the wet puddle at the centre of the table. While Castiel reached a hand out pointlessly – Dean was too far away should he need any assistance – Bobby raised a hand to his own hip, effectively blocking Castiel's path.

"Castiel here has come to take you home."

Dean dropped his gaze down to his hand, and pulled up the sodden blanket. Squeezing his fist around it, he turned to Bobby and stepped past him, heading straight for Castiel: "I'm keepin' this."

Bobby let him pass and stayed in the interview room as Castiel lead Dean back up the corridor and through the patchwork of desks that assemble the office. At the gaze of the majority of the station employees turning to him, Dean was quick to shed the blanket, but he kept it bundled at his core. The soaked edges dripped a trail of water across the already ruined carpet.

"Bye, Dean." The male receptionist gave a nod in their direction as he closed the door to the door behind them, and Dean turned, mouth slightly open, and murmured: "Yeah, uh, thanks Rick."

As Castiel escorted Dean down the steps of the station, he cast a look at the man behind him. "Friend of yours?"

Dean shook his head, and sniffed, before casting his gaze around the carpark. His own vehicle was obviously parked near the station entrance, but Dean conceded Bobby's instructions with only a: "You'll bring me back to get her later?"

"Of course."

Dean followed Castiel aimlessly between cars, misreading Castiel's body language once or twice and turning in the wrong direction, only to have to jog to catch up with him moments later. When Castiel escorted him to the tiny blue Honda Civic, Dean sniggered and he wrinkled his nose as he clambered into the front seat – struggling to duck his head beneath the doorframe and immediately reaching below the chair and searching to its adjustment lever.

When Castiel asked if Dean would prefer to go straight home, Dean failed to respond. However, his stomach filled the void with a large growl. Dean flushed, and Castiel drove them with a smile on his lips to a small diner halfway between the station and Dean's home.

It was a dingy place, with a sticky floor and fluorescent lights, more designed for truck drivers passing through or shift workers on their way home than Castiel's like. But it was the only place en route, and Dean doesn't seem at all perturbed by the low hygiene rating displayed in the window, ordering a full cooked breakfast (seemingly not a problem for the kitchen, after 3pm) and attacking it ravenously. Castiel ordered a bagel for himself, and was surprised to find it arrive whole and cold.

He held it back to the waitress uncertainly. "Excuse me-"

"Toaster's broke."

She filled two beige coloured mugs unceremoniously with watery looking instant coffee, and threw Castiel a challenging glare, before stalking back around to the cashier's register and extracting a mobile phone from her apron.

Castiel turned back to Dean, only to find him entirely otherwise occupied with his meal, and the silence between them only punctuated by the smack of Dean's lips around his scrambled eggs.

"How have you been since I last saw you, Dean?"

Dean shovelled his spoon into his mouth and slurped the remainder from it, chewing the offering only once before swallowing and smacking his lips.

"I saw you two days ago, Cas."

The abrupt change in Dean's demeanour from police station to diner hung between them awkwardly. While Castiel might have been more content on another occasion to let it slide, being the second "emergency call out" for Dean's behaviour in the past week was sufficient to try his patience and raise the subject.

"You were distressed the last time."

Dean shrugged and took another bite. "What's new?"

"Have you spoken with Aaron?"

Dean's chew faltered momentarily, but he swallowed the meal and dropped his fork to the table. Eyes firmly away from Castiel's, he reached for his napkin, and wiped his mouth.

"I tell you I saw a girl who'd been murdered appear in my bedroom, and you want to know about my ex-boyfriend?"

"I thought it might be an easier topic to discuss."

"How is it relevant?"

Castiel paused and Dean's mouth twisted with a quick surliness. "Just because you're a psychologist doesn't mean you get to pry."

Castiel said nothing else, and shrugged his shoulders in his trenchcoat. Dean huffed in response and reached for his fork again, only he did so with too enthusiastic a speed and sent it clattering to the floor instead. Gritting his teeth, he turned to flag down the waitress – who ignored his wave in favour of turning away from the counter and staring at the wall behind her, fingers still tapping out on her phone.

Dean rotated back to Castiel and stared down at his still half-full plate, arms crossed. With a sigh, Castiel pushed his bagel towards Dean. The gesture was lost on him though, and he stared at Castiel's left hand until Castiel pointedly withdrew it and placed it under the table.

"You know what it's like to have someone leave you, Cas?"

Castiel shuffled in his seat, and covered his hand, knowing that it was out of Dean's gaze already. "Yes, I do."

Dean raised his eyebrows even though the answer was obvious, and reached forward, twisting a piece of the bagel and rolling it between his fingers. Castiel ran his tongue around the inside of his teeth, letting his jaw click with the movement. He felt the track of Dean's eyes upon him, but did nothing to show his attention had been noted. Eventually, Dean shifted again, and when Castiel looked back to him he was staring down at the bagel, blinking quickly. "I tried to call him, but he didn't pick up. I got the message loud and clear."

"What message was that?"

Dean looked at Castiel, huffed out a laugh of incredulity, and sent his gaze careering off the far corner of the room.

"That I'm not even worth a good time; I'm that fucking screwed up."

It was not for Castiel to comment on Aaron's callousness, although a series of words that he might use to describe him flickered vaguely across his mind: "You shouldn't hinge your self-perception on Aaron's behaviour."

Dean rolled his eyes and continued to stare out to the corner.

"Christ Cas, you're practically the best I got and you think I'm headed to the funny farm any day now."

"I do not think that is the best option for you at this stage, Dean. And I am not a psychiatrist."

"You will though."

Dean threw his rolled up piece of bagel back onto his plate, and used his knife to spear a sausage of his cooked breakfast, biting into it angrily.

Dean picked up the whole sausage with his fork and bit into it angrily.

"How about you then?" He asked the question through the lump of meat rolling around in his mouth, and Castiel felt his lip curl.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, who left you?"

Castiel rolled his shoulders backwards and straightened his posture against the sudden curious onslaught. "I'm not sure that is an appropriate question."

Dean raised an eyebrow and pouted slightly. "This a'int a session, doc. If we're colleagues and you get to ask me about my lost loves, then I get something back."

He mimicked Castiel's shoulder roll to prove his point and sat up straighter, eyeballing him ferociously. Castiel turned away and stared at the entrance to the diner. Dean snorted behind him, and swallowed his meal.

Castiel's fingers, without his instruction, immediately went to the fourth finger on his left hand to rub at the empty space there. Dean's eyes tracked the movement uncautiously, before he nodded at the implicit answer. With the subject moved off him, his mood suddenly lifted, and he chewed without courtesy of properly closing his mouth.

"I would prefer not to discuss it. It is not a pertinent matter to our relationship."

Dean ceased mid-chew and stared at Castiel – mouth hanging open and its contents unfortunately visible – before he snapped it shut, and mumbled a quick "whatever."

Castiel pressed his lips together in a tight line and looked away from the scrutiny of Dean's gaze, beyond his shoulder where the waitress, in a surly manner, was now watching Dean eat. Castiel's mouth went dry with the embarrassment of her attention – despite the fact neither he nor Dean was clearly at fault. Dean seemed sufficiently put off by the line of conversation, and looked back to his meal awkwardly. He stared at it for several minutes until Castiel, assuming that the awkwardness would not fade of its own accord, attempted to redirect it towards the more pressing point of conversation.

"What happened today to upset you, Dean?"

Dean didn't even look up from considering his meal. His lip only twitched before answered blandly and with eyes cast down embarrassedly, as though he were being forced to explain why his homework was late.

"Woke up choking on dirt and freezing cold. Had the heater on for hours. Thermostat still read 46 degrees four hours later. She's angry."

"Jo?"

Dean's mouth turned into a surly frown, and his tongue twisted within his mouth, forcing his cheeks to swell and contract around his frustration.

"The poor sap they have in custody didn't do it. And she dun't like that."

"Do you really believe that she will hurt you, Dean?"

Dean rubbed the back of his neck and jostled in the booth. When he looked up to Castiel, his irises were shaking: "I believe that she's dead, she's angry, and I'm the only one who can hear her. According to you, that's impossible, so who knows what to believe?"

Castiel had no answer for that, and Dean went back to appraising his meal, before jostling his shoulders once, and looking back to Castiel with a forced kind of cheeriness and an obvious determined intention that the subject be abandoned.

"You know, I was thinking, there's a kind of... convention comin' up soon. A few weeks. They always invite me to go and I always say no, but... well, I'll be doing another reading and I thought it might... be useful for you to watch. If you want, I mean."

"When is it?"

"The twentieth. About an hour out of the City. We'd have to leave by 7."

Castiel reached across to his satchel and pulled out his diary, flipping through the pages until he found the relevant date. He noted his own scrawl had already earmarked it for Amelia's event, that Meg had scolded him into attending. He extracted a pen regardless, making a quick mental calculation that if he arrived at Amelia's at 6pm, he could excruciate his way through one hour before he met Dean and made his way to the convention. With a few short flicks, he had marked the date. Rifling to the back of the book, he pulled out a page allocated for notepaper, and quickly copied Amelia's address out for Dean.

"If you could pick me up from that address, I will be able to come."

Dean stared at it for one moment before pocketing it and grinning. "Sounds good, Cas."

Castiel appraised his smile quickly, but didn't comment, and Dean didn't drop it even though it was obvious he was under scrutiny. Their waitress, at Catiel's third wave eventually conceded to bring them their bill, and Castiel passed her a note to spare the mortification of waiting for her to process his card. Dean easily slid past the question of payment by directing his attention to his meal and shovelling the last few dregs into his mouth on the edge of his knife and chewing determinedly until Castiel's wallet was replaced in his bag.

"So, you're headin' back to work?"

Castiel stood and raised his satchel to his shoulder. "I don't think so, I have no further classes for the day. And your home is not en route."

Dean pulled his jacket on over his shirt. "You can drop me back at the station. I'm fine to drive."

"Bobby would not appreciate that."

"Yeah, well Bobby's not gonna bring my car back for me either. I can't afford a taxi and you're not my babysitter."

It was the firm decision in Dean's voice, and not convenience, that prompted Castiel to agree. The drive back to the station only took fifteen minutes, and by the time they pulled into the parking lot, Dean was moderate and, as he said firmly, clearly capable of driving.

"Thanks for the lift, Cas. I 'preciate it."

"It was no problem."

"And... sorry... about the call out. It won't happen again."

Castiel did mind, but he professed the opposite. To be fair, Dean was a remarkable study, and whatever inconvenience working with him provoked, it would surely be outweighed by the eventual results.

"I am happy for you to contact me in an emergency, Dean. And I appreciate for you that may be more often than most."

Dean's lip twitched and his cheeks flushed, and he pulled himself out of the car, scratching at his neck as he stood and looked back down to Castiel. "You need to get out more, doc. Find something better to be doing than watching me."

Castiel shrugged, and shifted his car from park back into drive. "I'll see you soon."

Dean waved as he shut the door, and scuffed his feet while Castiel drove out of view. Castiel beelined it for the University, despite his assurance to Dean otherwise, and spent another late evening typing out a new chapter. When he sat back at 2am, he conceded it was too late to return home. Sleep came quickly in the confines of his office, and though he woke the next morning with a crick in his neck, he was grateful for the opportunity to continue typing uninterrupted, until the preliminary trickle of students marked the beginning of 8am lectures and he could go about his day unencumbered.

...

_An extract from the unpublished paper of Professor Castiel Novak (MA Berkeley, PhD Harvard) regarding his case study of the medium, E_

_A purported spiritual gift is equal parts a sword and shield for an individual otherwise ill-equipped to suffer through the rigidity of social engagement. On one hand, it is sufficiently unusual to dispel its audience, and allows its espouser a hermitude of sorts – more importantly, a social sphere of spiritual visitation where their preferred dialogue is paramount. Where usual social discourse may render the "medium" ill at ease, or the object of ridicule, the spiritual sphere is a realm of power._

_On the other hand, a professed "psychic ability" is a beacon to those interested in supernatural paraphernalia and provides its owner with an opportunity to sift through the social brigade and extract those desirous to bestow attention – regardless of praise or censure._

_Surprisingly, the desire for isolation and the desire for attention can be experienced simultaneously, and E is a positive example of scattered interests. While his concern at his own lack of companionship professes the latter interest, his method of engagement is primarily spirit-centric – despite even conscious efforts otherwise, all roads lead to it. For E, the expulsion of social company has the added benefit of creating a victimised state. This has benefit in both spheres –inflating the subject's self-importance in spiritual discourse, and engaging an audience desirous to afford pity._

_All of this can happen quite unconsciously. In fact, in E's case, this seems likely. The key aspect of this behaviour is that it reinforces the place of the spirits in his circumstance – they are the vehicle through which he relates to people, and more importantly to himself. Ultimately, however difficult the encounters may be for him, they are a constant promise. And to stave off the ache of perpetual loneliness, they are the best and greatest promise, albeit the promise of psychological undoing._


	4. Upon its witness

**AN: WARNING! This chapter contains references to rape. While the event is not described in any detail, a narrative is given of the lead up to the attack.**

**CHAPTER FOUR**

Castiel ought to have anticipated that the scheduling of a meeting with Dean for two weeks' from the date of their last would not be the end of the matter. The fact that he was hurtling towards mid-semester break, and had three boxes full of essays to mark (and the tearful student appointments that would no doubt follow the assault of his red pen) were immaterial to Dean's purposes.

He had wondered if perhaps, despite Dean's swings to camaraderie on occasion, he might feel pleased to have an opportunity for a break from their encounters. Castiel, for his own part, felt that the occasion to contemplate what he had derived from Dean thus far would be of benefit to the study, and the time to consult with his colleagues even more so. He was happy to leave things as they were.

Spiraling events, however, undermined that aim.

The day after he deposited Dean at the police station, he received a cryptically worded text: "Halle-fucking-lujah." It arrived during a tutorial, which appeared to be the emerging unfortunate pattern for his receipt of Dean's correspondence, he was unable to respond or divert attention to deciphering Dean's meaning. On the walk back to his office, his fingers were halfway through tapping out an inquiring response, when Meg sashayed past him and muttered: "Check your inbox, bucko."

Upon due and hasty examination in the privacy of his office (with students waiting outside his door in a line for a slew of course-related queries), he found Meg had sent him a link to a local newspaper article decrying the release of the man suspected of the murder of "local jewel" Joanna Beth Harvelle. He didn't have time to respond to Dean's message until two hours later, when the last of his students trailed off, and by the time he checked his mobile phone again Dean – unperturbed by his non-response – had texted again: "His name is Ash Bonifante n he is cmn by 2mro 2pm if u wna b there".

Castiel typed out a quick reply: "Yes, I will, with his consent."

There was a pause of only minutes before Dean replied: "Hes al gud. C u thn."

Meg followed up in the next morning, and insisted Castiel take a dictaphone to his meeting with Dean. "What can I say, Clarence? I'm interested in the little tree-topper."

"You're not officially involved in the study."

"And you've spilled half the can already."

Castiel conceded to take the dictaphone with him, upon Meg's brutal stare and swirl of her lips. He had a headache, and he was hardly in any mood to argue. But, knowing regardless that he would be punished for it later, he "forgot" to turn it on upon his arrival on Dean's doorstep. His notepad, however, was primed and ready, stuffed into his half-empty satchel, with a few personal notations written in his own cryptic shorthand reminding him of hypotheses he intended to investigate, during the encounter.

A ute parked outside Dean's driveway marked Ash's arrival, and when Castiel entered the lounge he found him seated on Dean's couch, staring at an untouched mug of tea before him and fiddling with a loose strand of hair that formed part of a rather committed mullet. His hunched posture was out of sorts with the loudness of his style, and his lip was trembling slightly when he turned to witness Dean lead Castiel into the lounge.

Ash was quick to jump up and shake Castiel's hand – a little limply, and with cold fingers – and he stood aimlessly as Dean directed Castiel to another couch and excused himself to the kitchen to prepare Castiel a mug of his own: "Tea will be fine." Dean rolled his eyes minutely, but made sure to keep the movement from Ash's sightline.

"So, you're a PhD?"

"I'm a Professor at Carmel University, yes." Castiel seated himself opposite Ash, taking in the armless plaid shirt he wore and ripped jeans – not out of context with the haircut – though swimming on Ash's frame as he curled a little around himself.

"And you're writing a book about Dean?"

"I hope so, if he proves a fruitful enough subject."

Dean snorted in the kitchen and Castiel's gaze flickered to the doorway immediately. He hadn't intended the words as a joke. He looked back to Ash, whose mouth was twisted into an embarrassed smile and whose knees were bouncing up and down as he leaned forwards on his couch.

"I assure you," Castiel observed, as he extracted his notepad from his satchel, "I am here to observe Dean only. Your discussions here will remain entirely confidential. If you do feel uncomfortable at any point, I am happy to-"

"No. No. It's fine. Kind of… a free visit to a professional. Could probably do with one of those." Ash grinned an empty smile at Castiel and leaned back in his chair. "I'm, uh, a bit all over the place these days."

Castiel nodded understandingly and sat backwards, as Dean stuck his head around the corner of the kitchen. "You drink coffee, Cas? I've run out of your leaf-water crap."

Ash looked down at his own mug of tea and flushed, and Castiel waved him on. "Coffee is fine. Milk and sugar, please." Dean wrinkled his nose and clicked his tongue, but proceeded back to the kitchen, and there was a wrinkling sound as he opened a packet of biscuits and dumped them unceremoniously onto a tray.

"So, a psychologist huh? You practice?"

Castiel shook his head."Not currently. I teach at the University, and elsewhere."

Ash nodded in understanding and brought the tips of his fingers together, staring at them, even though he continued to address Castiel.

"Which college you study at?"

"Berkeley, then Harvard."

Ash smiled sadly at him, in a way that was clearly intended to mask the broiling worry beneath his skin, and nodded. "You look like a Harvard guy."

Castiel inclined his head towards his shoulder and stated plainly: "I suppose."

Ash lowered his hand to scratch absently at his thigh and turned his gaze to the kitchen, presumably watching Dean in the faint hope that he would hurry and relieve him of the suspense. "I was MIT. Before I dropped out."

"Really?"

Ash nodded without affectation or any indication that he had found Castiel's surprise rude, and pronounced casually: "Particle Physics. Got bored."He sat backwards in his chair and his eyes flickered to Dean in the kitchen, before his gaze dropped back to his hands. "You know how it is. Everyone there's a slave to the machine. I needed to get out."

He ran a hand across the back of his neck, pulling his hair with him, and pausing in surprise when his fingers happened upon knots.

"What do you do now?" Castiel asked mildly, as he watched Ash stare at his hand for a moment, before dropping it back to his lap in ignorance of his personal grooming.

"Bartend. A bar called the Roadhouse. You've probably heard of it." Ash's smile was an isolated cheeriness on a face that was otherwise heavy and drained. Castiel found himself momentarily stumped for a response, before they were mercifully interrupted by Dean's arrival back in the lounge. Balanced upon a gaudy looking tray were two mismatched mugs and a plate of haphazardly arranged and stale looking biscuits. Castiel quickly moved to grab at the coffee table set off to the side of the room and dragged into the centre of their chair arrangement. Dean threw him a look of thanks as he deposited the tray down and passed Castiel his watery offering.

Ash reached forward to take his and all but drained it before Castiel had raised his own mug to his lips, depositing it back with a blank expression. Dean ignored him momentarily, instead looking to Castiel meaningfully with a message that was unclear from the context, before seating himself beside Ash and meeting his gaze."So, what can I do for you?"

The bouncing of Ash's knees trebled in pace, though he kept his words measured as he answered Dean: "I heard that you came to the police station, when I was in holding. Said that you knew it wasn't me."

Dean flushed and looked back to Castiel, as though expecting him to interject (or maybe hoping that he would), before answering with a quiet murmur: "Yeah, I did."

"How did you know?"

Dean pursed his lips and stared downwards at his lap, fiddling idly with his hands and shifting awkwardly in his seat.

"If you were at MIT, I figured you've at least googled me already." It was Ash's turn to color as he watched Dean move away, and wring his hands once. "I know that you're… a medium, and you say you can talk to spirits."

"That's right."

Ash's gaze flicked to Castiel for a reaction, but he betrayed none, and turned down to his notepad to scrawl: _modest presentation. _The action had the effect he was hoping for, and rendered him sufficiently invisible for the conversation to continue, uninhibited.

"So… you've seen Jo?"

"Yeah. I have."

Whatever dubiousness Ash had held, he found sufficient sincerity in Dean's tone and in his stare that had a rush of emotion swelling within him. With a shudder, he leaned forward and covered his face with his hands, murmuring hurriedly: "Shit. Shit."

"Hey. Hey, it's alright, man. Here."

Dean reached forward and grabbed Ash's tea, growling when he realized it was already empty. When Ash seemed less than interested, Dean looked to Castiel quickly, before murmuring: "Water? Do you need water?" Dean's meaning was clear, even though Ash followed up with a sob and a shake of his head. Castiel stood and moved to the kitchen, selecting the cleanest glass from the drying rack (Dean had done the dishes, surprisingly) and filling it with frothy tap water. He returned and deposited it on the table, to Dean's mouthed _thank you_.

Ash drew a quick breath around an oncoming sob, and looked back to Dean who – Castiel noted, since his departure from the room – had extended an arm and was circling his hand between Ash's shoulder blades.

"I just… I can't believe this. That some… bastard..."

Ash cast his gaze around the room, and the fury in his eyes was so heated that even Castiel felt momentarily accused of being the perpetrator himself.

"I was working that night. She was right there. And he must have been. If only I'd-"

Ash's voice cracked and his eyes ran around the room again in vague and aimless search for some kind of comfort. His gaze settled on Castiel, even though Castiel was keeping his eyes determinedly away from the exchange to afford the moment privacy. His knee twitched under the sudden attention.

Dean leaned forward and held around Ash's arm tightly.

"It wasn't your fault, Ash. You know that?"

Ash shook his head slowly, eyes staring before him in vacant disbelief as he failed to absorb the comfort in the words.

"I know it was. Guys, they'd come after Jo all the time at the bar. She was tough, but it was always up to me to keep an eye on her. Her mother gave me a roof over my head for just that. And I…"

Dean looked to Castiel, not helplessly but with some kind of plea for assistance, before he turned back to Ash and moved closer.

"The people that do these things, Ash. It's their fault. You can't blame yourself."

"She was my best friend."

Dean's jaw shifted and he rubbed at Ash's shoulder lightly for a moment, before giving a small smile and inclining his head to the right.

"I failed her."

The bland smile stayed fixed on Dean's face and he froze in his movements on Ash's shoulder, nodding his head evenly as though pounding out a soft beat. Ash breathed in a hurried sob, before registering Dean's lack of response, and turning towards him with a question in his slack jaw.

"What the-"

Castiel waved a hand to attract Ash's attention and gave a small nod of understanding. Ash's face changed from despair to aggression in a moment, and just as he turned with the energy of insult invigorating his body, Dean wiped at his ear and his eyes re-focused.

"C-Can't fight this feeling?"

There was a beat as even Castiel stared on in disbelief.

"Dean-"

"You know, the song." Dean hurried out, eyes flickering to a point beyond Ash's shoulder. "REO Speedwagon."

Ash's mouth fell open and his face drained immediately of color. His shoulder jumped, and Dean's eyes moved to that point. He nodded slightly and withdrew his hand from Ash's shoulder, encasing it in his other and rubbing furiously at the skin as though he were cold.

"Wait… is she?"

Dean nodded again, eyes closing momentarily, and a smile spreading across his face which revealed both layers of his teeth. Castiel made a quick note on his pad: _discrepancies in expression during "visitation"._

"Oh Jesus Christ. Shit, what do I say?"

Dean pursed his lips, eyes still closed, and raised a finger.

"Just… just wait a minute. She's…"

He rubbed at his temple absently, and across from him, Castiel mimicked the movement as a momentary pulse rose in his own. He massaged it carefully for a second, before dropping it and watching the pair closer.

"She's not angry at you, Ash. Not at all. There's only…there's just a lot of love there. She wants you to know she's alright now. Don't… don't regret anything."

Ash's lips began to tremble as he looked at Dean's closed eyes earnestly, before back to the empty spot at Castiel's shoulder.

"H-How can I? If I had-"

Dean's eyebrow twitched, and he cocked his head towards the space beside him. He twisted his lip until one of his incisors ran across it, and repeated the motion several times, to Ash's widening gaze. With a rub to his eyelids, he opened them again and looked at Ash, mouth moving back to his usual pursed smile.

"Just.. take care, sucker."

"But-"

Dean shook his head again and pressed his hand to his temple tightly, before sighing.

"I'm sorry, shit…She's… she's back on the witch's claws again. Um-"

"What?"

"Just… this rhyme. Don't step on the witch's claws. No, wait-"

Dean reached out slowly as though he might be able to grab something, but only succeeded in grasping thin air and opened his eyes in frustration, searching the room quickly. "Shit."

"She's gone?"

Dean looked back to Castiel, almost accusingly, before he let his head loll back and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "I asked her to stay but… I don't think she had the energy for it. I think it's hard, for her to see you… grieving."

Ash hastily wiped at his eyes, despite the action being defunct in light of Dean's loss of fascination with the empty space.

There were a few minutes of silence, during which tears brimmed over and ran down Ash's cheeks, and he rubbed at them with the heel of his hand. Dean was otherwise preoccupied staring at the ceiling, and Castiel moved to pass a box of tissues – helpfully situated directly beside him – to Ash.

When Dean broke the silence with a groan, and leaning forward to rub at his temples, he carried on as though there had been no break in the conversation. "Even to manifest to me… it's a lot of energy. And Jo is… she's going nuts trying to find the killer. And trying to get you out. She woke me up twice with that."

"H-how?"

Dean threw another glance at Castiel before turning to Ash and answering sincerely. "It's… it's like an energy thing. I just woke up and I could… _feel _how angry she was. She was showing me… things."

Ash recoiled slightly at that, and his face drained of color. "That's not like her to be so… vengeful."

"I'm sure it's not. But that's the way with spirits. She's just pure, unbridled emotion at the moment and she can't control it. She's watching her friends and family suffer. And she's afraid to tell me what happened to her, so she's turned it all on…" Dean cleared his throat and rubbed at his jeans.

"Look, when you're alive, your life is the most important thing, right? Everything you do, it's about enjoying it, or protecting it, or prolonging it, or… Well, when you die, your death becomes the big deal. I haven't come across many spirits that aren't fixated on it."

Dean wiped at his brow, and reached forward to take a draught of the water that Castiel had brought to Ash. When he deposited it, half-drained, his voice was low and his face was pale.

"I'm sorry, but that's all I have for you."

Ash nodded slowly and resignedly, still twisting his hands atop his knees.

"Do-Do you think they'll find her killer?"

"I don't know. She won't show me what happened. To be honest… I'd rather she didn't."

Ash jolted at the revelation, and leaned back in his chair, running his hands down his face and dragging his cheeks with them. His mouth dropped with the exertion upon his skin.

"I-I guess. That's it then."

Dean nodded once, and his gaze flickered back to Castiel, perhaps with expectation of interjection.

"You know," he said, keeping his eyes fixed on Castiel's, "you can talk to her, if you want. Just to the empty air. She's around and she'll hear. You can tell her… whatever it is you didn't get the chance to say today, or before…"

Ash hiccupped once, and a single stream of tears emerged from the edge of his right eye. "Seems stupid."

Dean grimaced and chuckled once, before landing a light slap on Ash's shoulder. "I know. Death… it makes you feel stupid. But… it's important for you to feel… all of that. And if you need to talk to her… you should. Right?"

Ash nodded over and over, starting with smaller nods that turned into more sweeping arcs. "Yeah. Yeah. I-… Shit."

He fell forwards again to wipe at his face with his hands and brush a few further tears away. Castiel reached across the table and held out the tissue box again, but otherwise kept silent as Dean's gaze flickered to him.

"I don't know how it's going to be at the Roadhouse from now on. Jo, she was kinda the heart of the place. Apple of her mother's eye. Hit with all the patrons. She was… still so young."

Dean squeezed Ash's shoulder and let him drop a few tears into his lap.

"I know, I know." For as many times as he had looked at Ash during their conversation, Dean looked again to Castiel and his eyes widened as she spoke. "But… d-don't give her a reason to haunt that place. She needs to pass on, and she needs to know that she's safe to leave you behind. That's all you can do for her now."

Ash nodded quietly and let a few more tears, before he eventually stood and made his move to leave. He fumbled at his trousers in the doorway to the hallway and made to remove his wallet, but Dean stopped him with a quiet hand and a soft stare.

"There's no charge, Ash. You take care of yourself. And Ellen."

Ash's mouth dropped open at the name, but Dean offered no further explanation for the statement. It seemed, as Ash's face paled again, that he and Dean both understood the name to have emerged from a spirit dialogue with "Jo". At the back of Castiel's mind, however, a previous conversation fastforwarded, until it hit on the crucial detail: "Her mother, Ellen, runs this place."

Castiel stayed in his seat, and let them move through the doorway for farewells, with a foul taste on his tongue. He had expected to find it eventually. The decodable revelation – the obvious pointer to falsity. It wasn't as if he had begun to doubt his own hypothesis regarding Dean, but nonetheless there was a certain bitter disappointment in seeing the first crack in the veneer. His brow furrowed tightly around the thought and he sank further back into the armchair, rubbing at the bridge of his nose in an effort to dispel the tension there.

No doubt there would be more to come. And each exposed in a circumstance where a tearful, misguided patron was drawing comfort from Dean's condition – to their own detriment, and likely to Dean's too. He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe, while Dean and Ash murmured through a final conversation.

Ash failed to question Dean's elaborate lock system as Dean navigated his exit, although the dismantling took almost a full minute. Castiel wondered vaguely as to the origins of Dean's need for security of his home – while it made sense that he was paranoid about outside influence, it seemed unusual that the same system essentially hemmed him in with the spirits he protested fear of. If Dean ever did need to make a hasty escape, they would certainly hold him up in no small measure.

"Y-you know where they found her?"

Dean paused momentarily, and the floor beneath him creaked as he adjusted restlessly, letting the front door fall open with a light whine of hinges ill-equipped for its weight.

"Forest behind the bar, just out of town."

"Yeah."

Ash's voice dropped low. "I saw a picture of it at the station, when they were escorting me out. That sicko dumped her in the roots of this massive tree. You know the kind? Buttress roots? The ones that grow out of the ground."

"Yes."

Ash swallowed carefully, and his voice cracked as he explained.

"Just… just a shallow grave. You can't dig much around those things. She wasn't even well-hidden, just..."

He cleared his throat and paused for a moment, and on the other side of the wall, Dean moved to stand beside him and murmured a few quiet calming words that had Ash breathing harshly and making small noises of assent as he took control of himself.

"It's just… that thing you said about the witch's claws. She told you that?"

"Yes."

Ash sniffed once and there was a lengthy pause in the doorway, as they both seemed to hold their breaths.

"You know… there was this nursery rhyme that went around my school when I was a kid. I think some kid at our school must have made it up. Never heard of anyone else knowing it."

Ash breathed out, a light pulse of his voicebox accompanying it. Dean, for his part, smacked his lips, and murmured: "Sorry, I-"

Ash swallowed carefully again, and his voice dropped lower, such that Castiel was obliged to strain his ears to make out the phrasing.

"It goes, something like: _don't step on the witch's claws, don't step on the tree, keep your steps careful, or else you'll step on me_..."

Dean farewelled Ash without much more, and he breathed out a heavy sigh as he shut the door behind him, once again attending to his locking system. When his rattling ceased, he waited for almost a full minute before returning to the lounge. Even though Castiel remained in his seat, Dean's eyes moved to him at once when he entered the room, and they narrowed slightly.

"You heard… what he said?"

Castiel nodded curtly and stayed stoic on the floor, as Dean stared at him momentarily and clenched his fists at his sides. With a sigh, he gestured to the untouched plate of biscuits still sitting at the coffee table.

"You, uh, done?"

"…yes. Yes, for now."

Dean paused momentarily, and a small smile twitched across the corner of his mouth. "You gonna want your cold coffee later then?"

His eyes lit as he awaited Castiel's recognition of the jibe, but his expression dropped when none came.

"Cas. You alright? Can I get you-"

Castiel unfroze himself to run a light hand down his face in a vague kind of apology, before gesturing at his temples vaguely.

"An Advil, if you have one. I have a headache."

Dean was the one to pause then, eyes surveying Castiel's quickly, before he nodded and turned away.

"Right, sure."

Dean bustled quickly to the kitchen and opened and closed several cupboards. There was a rustling as he sorted through random sounding collection of tin-foiled packets, and Castiel shut his eyes and breathed out in irritation until Dean returned with a glass of water and a small silvery packet.

"Here you go."

Castiel took the pills and popped them from their packet, and Dean watched as he drained the glass downing them. Afterwards, he took the empty packet and glass back from Castiel and placed them inside the kitchen, before shuffling out and anchoring his hands in his pockets, staring him down.

"You, uh, do you need to go back home? Or…?"

Castiel shook his head and re-deposited himself back upon his chair, fingering idly at the armrest before meeting Dean's gaze. "I just need a moment, it will pass."

"Oh…ok."

Dean sat opposite Castiel again and played absently with the mug in front of him, lining up the wet spoons and rearranging the milk and sugar into a shape no more logical than they had previously been before he looked up at Castiel.

"You-"

He was interrupted by the buzz of his phone in his pocket, and extracted it quickly. His eyes glazed over as he scanned the message, before depositing it and sliding it into his pocket. "Just Ash. Sayin' thanks again. That it really helped."

His mouth twitched into a small smile as he leaned back in his chair again and slotted his fingers together, letting one leg begin to jiggle as he waited out Castiel's episode. Castiel endured only a few moments of the bated silence before he let his head loll to the side and looked at Dean squarely.

"You… spoke well to him. Differently than I had expected."

"What you're used to seeing?"

Castiel shook his head, and Dean blinked and smiled lightly at the edge of his mouth before looking away.

"I told you, I don't turn tricks. And I told him the truth. He needs to move on. He can't stay haunted by it."

Castiel held his breath at that, and pressed his lips together, unwilling to betray his sentiment to the contrary. To abate the need for an immediate answer, he ran his hands up the armchair of the couch lightly, twirling one finger in a circle around an old cigarette burn. The house had no scent of smoke, and Dean betrayed no symptom of the addicted. Likely, it was due to a habit long since forgotten, or had been inherited with the second hand item. He looked to Dean from the corner of his eye, as Dean stared at his walls blankly, and continued: "Why didn't you accept his money?"

Dean, apparently ignorant of Castiel's new hostility, continued mildly and openly: "Doesn't seem right, profiting off grief like that. Sometimes they insist. I usually donate it to the hospice or something. Few times I've been desperate, but… I always feel guilty."

"How do you meet your basic needs, if not through such appointments? You are not employed."

"Nah." Dean shook his head, looking away from the walls and back to his hands, twisting them lightly at his lap. "Actually, I used to be a care worker. You know, in retirement homes, if you can believe that." He snickered before he even looked to Castiel to gauge his expression. It wasn't what he seemed to expect though, for Castiel was hardly shocked by the revelation, given Dean's easy manner with Ash. With a quick pause, and a lick of his lips, Dean continued:

"I mean… not for long. When I started seeing things it got… too much. But..." he shrugged, "I tried a few things for a while. Caring for people mostly. After the nuthouse though, the phone stopped ringing. Sometimes I get the funding. You know, for wackos. And I inherited this house. Other times…"

Dean shrugged, and wiped at his mouth, looking away pointedly.

"I'm not bad at pool, so…"

He left the implication hanging, and shuffled uneasily in his chair.

"In a way, it kinda fits. I never would have been the type to go to college anyway. Not like you."

"Why do you say that?"

Castiel sighed and prodded at his temples as a wave of tightness ran across the front of his forehead. When Castiel turned back to Dean, his pupils had blown wide around a narrow green iris rim, and he blinked several times at Castiel before stuttering around an answer.

"Not smart enough. Not anything enough."

Castiel's mouth twitched as he appraised Dean carefully. The look drew Dean's eye and his face gradually flushed as Castiel held his gaze evenly, masking his distrust: "I do not believe that."

Dean breathed out a laugh, but didn't look away from Castiel once as his eyes raked his face. "Yeah? What makes you say that?"

There was a bated pause before Castiel realized he had not covered, perhaps, his newer feeling of disdain enough. Dean's mouth fell open slightly, and his eyes flickered back and forth across Castiel's face in quick darts, gathering evidence for his conclusion. Despite the still metallic taste in his mouth, Castiel immediately regretted not coming up with a better lie.

"You mean cause you still think I'm a fraud, right?"

Castiel opened his mouth to respond, but his expression was not quick enough to hide the accuracy of the statement.

Dean's entire expression dropped, even though Castiel sat forward in his chair and held out a hand to indicate his desire to address the matter further. Dean looked on it with barely concealed instantaneous fury, before snarking: "All offence meant, you don't know shit Professor."

Dean thudded back into his chair and crossed his arms, staring furiously in the area of Castiel's shins. Castiel sat backwards in his own too, more slowly, regretting the evaporation of the easier camaraderie that had developed over the morning. Dean at once became the awkward patient again, determinedly avoiding Castiel's gaze and offering aborted, one-word answers to even the slightest investigation.

When Castiel left him in the early afternoon, Dean scarcely bid him farewell at the door, and shut it behind him with a slam. But as Castiel made his way to his car, and sat himself within it, he heard the sound of a crash within the house, and Dean's aggravated cry of "fuck!" He looked back to the doorway, almost anticipating Dean would storm back through it, and offer Castiel a piece of his mind. But silence quickly fell over the house, and there was no movement in the windows. Castiel waited for a minute or so, before cautiously starting his car, regretting that it would be audible to the interior of his house. Still, there was no sign that Dean wished to confer, and with a sigh, he pulled away from the kerb and set down the street en route back to the University.

…

The news was preoccupied for days with criticism of the local police department for their release of Ash without further apprehension of another suspect. Ash, unlucky as he was, had been caught on film leaving the police station, and one news station had been ignorant or perhaps callous enough to display the footage, speculating that Ash had managed to get away with murder. Ash had a solid legal case for defamation and breach of privacy, but on a bartender's salary, Castiel doubted he would ever have the opportunity to pursue it. Even if he did, the damage was done.

Dean was silent, even though Castiel did text him and request another appointment. Meg was less than sympathetic, when he raised it over their weekly coffee. "It's called _trust_, you imbecile. Don't you know it's not nice to call people names?"

The fact that Castiel had done no such thing, he knew, was a technicality. And he regretted the momentary invasion of judgment that had offended Dean. The revelation that Dean was fraudulent – or at least the indication of it, in his discussion with Ash – was hardly a surprise. Castiel knew what he had bought into when he commenced the study, and lies or not, he was certain Dean would benefit from psychological investigation. It was in everyone's interests that that should be allowed to occur.

Bobby, despite his misgivings as far as Castiel was concerned, appeared to agree when he phoned Castiel one night later (again failing to disclose how he had come by his mobile number) and requested his presence on a "field trip". His directions lead Castiel to a cordoned off back-country road an hour and a half away from the City, where Bobby met him with a flashlight and a surly looking Dean, who had pulled his hoodie up over his face.

"Sorry about the late call out, but I don't want the whole precinct knowing we were comin'. If the journos caught wind of it, my career would be down the crapper."

Dean had apparently only just been informed of Castiel's arrival, for he was quick to stalk off when Castiel ambled over to Bobby and greeted him with a handshake.

"You two in a spat?"

Castiel nodded and dug his hands into the pocket of his trenchcoat, blinking against the cold night air. While it wasn't strictly ethical to disclose any matter of their working relationship, Castiel suspected he wouldn't get by without offering a further explanation to the Police Chief for dean's behavior. "Dean is frustrated with the current path of my study. He does not appreciate my skepticism."

Bobby raised his eyebrows. "S'not like that's new."

"It was to be expected," Castiel answered mildly, falling into step behind Bobby as Dean – own flashlight in hand – lead the way up the winding road onto a grassy knoll which a sign nearby declared to be: "Woodhill Reserve". "I'm assuming from Dean's countenance it was not he who considered my presence was necessary for this."

Bobby tutted and lowered his voice. "Aww, you think?" Bobby looked across to Castiel with a raised eyebrow, but he quickly smoothed over his aggravation, before continuing apologetically: "We're low on leads and I need his help. But… the times we've done this before… can get a bit messy."

They stepped over a few stiles that prevented cars accessing the grassy part of the reserve, and then slid under a marker of yellow police tape. The fact that Dean seemed to know exactly where he was going without Bobby's instruction didn't seem to worry him.

They trudged together in silence, watching Dean warily, and Castiel asked: "What do you mean, messy?"

Bobby cleared his throat, and his steps faltered a little – allowing Dean to power further ahead across the field.

"We need the story from the horse's mouth. Dean can do that, but… he tends to get emotional. I was hopin' to avoid this, given what…"

He trailed off, and Castiel stared at him the darkness. He had the sense that Bobby knew he was awaiting further explanation, but was reluctant to give it. Dean stormed on ahead though, and his flashlight disappeared from view. With a sigh, Bobby stopped them and directed his flashlight to Castiel's face."I know you think it's all a crock of shit, but… if he gets too caught up, I was hopin' you could keep him out of harm's way. Can't hurt to have a professional here, right?"

Castiel paused and swallowed. "To be frank, ïf I'm not sure what to expect, I'm not certain I can be of assistance."

Bobby only grumbled and recommenced walking. "You're the best I've got, so you just do what you think is right if it comes to it."

He started at a jog to catch up with Dean, and passed into the treeline marking the forest boundary. Castiel followed, internally cursing the fact that he hadn't had the presence of mind to connect the directions to the forest with the prospect of a trek and worn more appropriate shoes. Bobby's own hiking pair were well suited, and, between Castiel's own plain leather pair and lack of flashlight, he tumbled more than once, and scraped his hands on the bark of several trees.

Fifteen minutes along the trail, they left the path – following instead a winding marker of police tape for another ten. Eventually, they reached another cordoned off area, although signs of police presence were fairly minimal. Only a tape remained, and a few boxes of equipment to presumably be retrieved later. Dean was frozen, staring at the tape and trembling.

Bobby nudged him as he walked past and raised the tape, directing his flashlight towards Dean's chest. "You ok, Dean?"

"Fine."

His hand reached out and ran along the yellow plastic, fingers fumbling with its edge. Hand clasping o the tape, he turned back to Bobby and brought his flashlight up to his face. "You ok if I just get in here…s'not gonna mess with anything?"

"We're done with the area. Do what you want."

For Dean's benefit, Bobby directed his flashlight out beyond the tape, and illuminated what Castiel had already expected awaited Dean – a large tree, with massive twisting roots, some of which were forced out of the ground with such strength that they sat around waist height. Dean, with visible reluctance, went immediately to their centre, moving his hands over their peaks – lip curling.

Castiel didn't need to state the obvious – that they had been brought to a crime scene, where someone had _died, and _cruelly.

It was impossible to particularize, but there was a stench of it in the air. Not of decay, of course, aside from that earthy decay that was typical of forests the world over. But above it, like a thin note, was a foulness. Castiel knew that it did not originate from any physical surrounding of the forest at all. Rather, it was associated with some chemical by-product of a mental discomfort with the circumstance. He unwillingly momentarily revisited a time when his nostrils had been filled with the acidic scent twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. Its familiarity provoked a host of associated physical responses that he had long since had occasion to feel – twitching fingers and an upset stomach being the most obvious. With a wipe to his mouth, he turned away from Dean and moved his focus to Bobby, swallowing heavily.

"You alright there?"

Bobby's voice was too quiet to be directed at Dean, and Castiel stiffened beside him, nodding redundantly in the darkness.

"Hmph." Bobby turned back and moved the flashlight as Dean clambered over another root, and wiped at his face with a softly shaking hand.

The forest was eerie enough, despite their location. The trees bristled with nightlife, and the wind caught on branches all around the vicinity, sending sounds reverberating through the otherwise silent space with clarity. While Bobby was obviously used to the site, the time of night seemed to get to him slightly too, and he pulled his jacket tight around his shoulders, even though the temperature itself was mild.

Dean stumbled around another root and paused momentarily, and then he fell backwards against the root, bringing his wrist to his mouth and coughing.

Bobby nudged Castiel and started forward. "You got paper? Write down what he says."

Castiel didn't have paper – anther oversight in his hurry to make the surprise appointment, but he did have his mobile phone, and he pulled it from his pocket quickly, tapping out notes as Dean called out hoarsely.

"I've got a car, Bobby. It's a… dark blue sedan."

"I'm here boy. What else?"

Dean wrinkled his nose and wiped at it, before he coughed ones and garbled out hoarsely: "Smoky."

He coughed a few more times and leaned down, pressing his forehead against his knees and letting his chest heave. There was a silence for a minute or so, before Dean murmured lightly: "Come on… show me." He shook his head once, before letting it fall back against the roots. For a few seconds he sat there silently, and his breathing evened. Then, unexpectedly, he jolted forwards with a statement caught in his throat. He managed a small sound before looking up and staring at them both, directly into the flashlights.

"She knew him… that's why she got in the car. Hers wouldn't start."

He coughed again and wiped at his mouth with his sleeve. "She'd had…", Dean gritted his teeth for a moment, before nodding once and following up quickly. "Some mouthy jerk at the bar… and she was feelin' kinda sick."

"We need a name, Dean."

Dean nodded and his brow furrowed as he covered his eyes with his palm. "Uh, he offered her a ride. Said he was passing by hers anyway… he said it looked like she'd had a rough night."

He swallowed once, and the sound came out wet.

"She's showing me… uh, cigarettes."

"A name Dean."

Dean nodded again, although this time it seemed less inclined to hear Bobby, and he started rubbing around his neck, holding himself between his thumb and index finger.

"Um," he swallowed, and garbled out another answer, "He, uh, said something about needin' to… pick something up, I don't know, it's kinda vague."

Dean grimaced and cleared his throat. His nose wrinkled once and he squeezed his eyes shut. "Just… he's smoking… she didn't like the smell so she tried to open the window… but he said it was broken…"

Dean bit his lip, brow furrowing in concentration, as his fingers rubbed at his neck.

"He was… he was being weird. Kinda quiet. Uh… they took a turn down the road and…"

Dean paused suddenly, before stiffening, and his fingers suddenly dug into his throat, so that white patches appeared against the skin beneath his touch.

"Dean? What is it?"

Dean's jaw shifted and his body stiffened, so that he was pushing his back up against the root.

He coughed again once, and then hurried out. "She… she got her phone out. She was gonna text Ash. Get him to… urrk." He fell sideways slightly and twisted his head, hacking out another cough into the ground before bringing his had up to wipe at his mouth. "Oh god, it tastes awful."

"What?"

"The smoke, it's all over me." Dean twisted his mouth and spat again, before coughing drily, his lips curling in disgust. Bobby nudged Castiel once and stepped forward, reaching for Dean, who remained doubled over.

"Dean, are you-"

"Ugh." Dean spat again and the spittle hung on a thin trail, descending down across his chin as he righted himself, paying no mind to the way it hung from the edge of his mouth. Bobby threw a quick glance back at Castiel and used his flashlight to illuminate Dean's face, who squinted and turned away. He clutched to his chest and coughed a few more times, before his right arm twitched and fell to his side.

"Dean?"

Castiel was surprised to hear that his own voice wasn't calm when he stepped forward and tried to attract Dean's attention. Dean didn't even glance at him, pushing himself harder against the root and hands coming up to pull his jacket tightly around himself. His voice, although hurried, was suddenly rising, and warbling with the effort.

"He asked who she was texting.._._she said that… Ash needed the keys to lock the Roadhouse, and they needed to go back…_Oh_."

Dean dropped his head to his chest and gritted his teeth. His breaths suddenly hastened, even though his chest scarcely seemed to move in his hunched posture. Bobby moved closer to the tree, and shone the torch in Dean's face.

"Dean… you only need the name."

Dean shook his head, and a small whimper marked a constriction at his throat.

"He told her that she…" Dean wiped at his mouth again and pushed back against the tree as Castiel took another step forward.

There was a change in Dean's tone as he shook his head vigorously, eyes still squeezed shut tightly.

"Please, Jo, don't make me see."

He pressed his lips together tightly as the color drained from his face, and he flinched away from Castiel as he extended an arm, murmuring: "_Dean_." Dean's mouth gaped a cry as his lips curled in disgust.

"He told her she was beautiful. That…oh god, no. No no no, _please_ don't."

Dean slapped at his own thigh with a fist and his gaze scrunched up as his knees began to judder. Bobby moved to Castiel's side and pushed him forward. "Cas, can you do somethin'? This a'int helpin' anyone."

Castiel stared at Dean for a moment, as he swallowed and let his head drop back against the tree trunk, fists clenching around his jacket. "Bobby-"

Bobby only pushed him forward roughly. "He's hallucinatin'. Don't you have a trick for that?"

There was a beat as the two men appraised each other. Bobby's panic, despite his strict tone, was evident, and his moustache twitched as he ground his teeth. Beyond them, Dean twisted in on himself and ground out a cry.

In theory, Castiel knew the ways to manage a patient struck with such an event. But, turning back to Dean, shivering in the darkness against the tree root, his mind abandoned him and he stumbled forwards aimlessly, dropping to his knees to reach lightly for Dean's arm. Dean yelped as Castiel made contact with him, but he didn't pull away – only stiffening and breathing harshly.

"Bobby. Bobby, he-… He stopped the car up here. He stopped the car down there. And then he… then he…"

Castiel looked back to see Bobby staring helplessly as Dean's mouth twisted around a disgusted expression, and his breath shuddered out in horrified, shaky attempts. With a deep breath of his own, Castiel turned and reached for Dean's flashlight, pulling it from him and using it to illuminate Dean's face.

"Dean, you can stop. Dean, _listen to me_."

Dean didn't listen as he gave a soft cry and curled further into the trunk. He struggled feebly to wrench his arm away from Castiel, and whimpered when Castiel held firm.

"Dean, it's not real. Focus on my voice, you're safe here."

"_No_… I-" Castiel gave Dean's arm a tight squeeze and the touch was enough to force Dean's eyes open. He searched around frantically for a moment, before his gaze found Castiel's and he fixated on him with panic, huffing out hurried breaths. In the torchlight, Castiel saw the shimmer of tears that hung suspended against his iris, above the rough red lines that ran as a cross-hatching across Dean's eyeball.

In a small voice, Dean asked: "Cas?"

"Breathe deeply. Keep your eyes on me."

Castiel squeezed Dean's arm again, as a reminder, and Dean's chest heaved with a sob. But, pressing his lips together, he forced in slow breaths through his nostrils. They flared with the effort, but the concentration put paid to the hyperventilation.

"You're safe with me here, Dean. It's just us here, alright." Dean nodded tightly, and with his free hand, he fumbled to find the sleeve of Castiel's jacket, gripping tightly and staring as he breathed in light wheezes, blinking furiously against the torchlight.

Castiel kept his gaze on Dean's until Dean was ready to look away. It took several minutes, but when he was ready, it happened abruptly, and he pulled himself away from Castiel, wiping at his brow.

"She's gone. I'm ok. I'm ok."

Castiel shuffled forward across the damp soil, bringing the flashlight up to illuminate Dean.

"Dean?"

Dean swallowed heavily, breathing out a few short breathes when he was done as though exhausted by the simple effort. Slowly, he drew himself backwards towards the root, moving his gaze to Castiel's and raking it emptily.

His face was no longer terrified, and his eyes were focused with stern resentment. "Good enough for you?" he spat, pushing himself away from the root and scrambling to stand, leaning against it heavily when he managed it. With a growl, Dean slammed his fist down onto the root, before he let his head drop – forcing his neck to let it lay low across his chest: "He _fucking_… that fucking coward."

With a twist of his lip, Dean wiped at his mouth again and spat, carelessly. The globule landed in the vicinity of Castiel, and, as unobtrusively as he could, he stood and moved away, allowing Bobby to step forward to take his place.

Castiel stood quickly, and moved away, allowing Bobby to step forward to take his place.

"Come on, Dean. Let's get you out of here."

Dean was less aggressive in rejecting Bobby's touch, but nonetheless he grimaced as he turned to meet Bobby's gaze.

"He's still out there, Bobby."

"I know. We'll catch him."

"How?"

There was accusation in Dean's gaze as he eyeballed Bobby, who turned away first, rubbing aggressively at his ear.

"I… I hope so. We'll do what we can."

Dean snorted and turned away, lip curling.

"It's not enough, you know?"

With a vicious sniff, Dean pulled away from the tree trunk and stalked toward Castiel, holding out his hand. There was an awkward pause as Castiel made to understand the gesture, eventually fumbling to pass over the torch. No sooner than Dean had it in hand, he stalked past Castiel and back off into the forest. Bobby stared after him for a moment, before turning back and staring at the roots regretfully.

"Bobby?"

Bobby didn't bother to answer Castiel, running his hand across his beard once and wiping his face into a more deliberate expression. With grim determination, he turned and immediately walked past Castiel as well, directing his own flashlight to illuminate the forest floor before them.

"We can't let him get too far ahead. Come on."

Castiel scarcely had the opportunity to spare a glance for the scene before he was sliding back under the yellow tape, and trailing after Bobby in silence. Ahead of them on the trail, Dean's shouted curses made clear his location. With a grimace, Bobby glanced at Castiel once, before he turned his gaze to the forest's floor and ploughed forward.

Castiel followed without a word or observation, suspecting any kind of offering, no matter how well-intentioned, would be treated with contempt. Despite his efforts, Dean still hissed spitefully at him as he moved to return to his car. "I'm that sick a fraud, you know, that I'd exploit the rape of a dead girl to impress you."

A glance at Bobby made clear that Castiel ought not to respond, and he slid into his car while directing his gaze carefully forward, and avoiding Dean's contemptuous glare. Despite his lack of engagement, and Bobby's growl, Dean made sure to add one last jibe, before Bobby forced him into the police car.

"Put that in your fucking book, you coward."

…

Dean's voice sounded dead when he phoned Castiel the next morning. "Bobby's coming around tonight. Do you want to be there?"

"Would you be comfortable with me being there, Dean?"

"I'd rather you were, yeah."

The admission was muted and grudging, but Castiel took it, and quickly emailed Meg to cancel their dinner plans. He doubted an apology from Dean would be forthcoming further than that, and in any event, he wasn't sure he deserved one. Even if Dean were a malicious fraud, it was not Castiel's place to reveal his suspicions regarding him. Meg was right to have asserted that he had breached Dean's trust, and Castiel was guilty.

"I'll be there. Is 7pm alright?"

"Yeah." Dean hung up before Castiel had the opportunity to inquire further.

Bobby hadn't arrived when he pulled up, and Dean leisurely unlocked his door, admitting Castiel to his lounge in silence with red-rimmed eyes. Bobby arrived only a few minutes later, after Castiel had stared uncomfortably at the floor while Dean stared at himand jostled his knees. Bobby greeted Dean with what sounded like a hug from Castiel's position in the lounge, and when Dean re-entered the room he was shuffling a set of a4 pages in his hands. Bobby followed, watching his perusal.

"Every known sex offender in the area – from harassment to assault."

Dean thumbed through the pictures and shook his head. "I don't know if…"

"Maybe your girl can. I can leave them with you."

Dean nodded silently and deposited them on the arm of his chair. "Do you want a drink? I can-"

"I've gotta get back to the station. Someone leaked to the media that Jo was… they're havin' a field day."

Dean nodded in understanding and immediately padded back out to the hallway, murmuring good night to Bobby before re-locking himself into the house. When he returned to the lounge he sighed and leaned back against the doorframe, letting his head seek support from the wall behind him.

When he did speak, his voice was tired, rather than angry, and he kept his eyes shut.

"Did you sleep at all last night, Cas?"

Castiel surveyed Dean's posture for a sign of a forthcoming aggressive episode, before conceding lowly: "very little," his rough voice demonstrative of the fact. In fact, it was thirty six hours since his last bout. Dean chuckled darkly and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. "Me neither."

He pushed himself off the wall and shuffled to the kitchen doorway, blinking blearily in the murky light. "Do you wanna come get a drink?"

Even framed as a question, it was clearly an instruction, and Castiel padded behind Dean to the dining table, seating himself in the same seat he had occupied when he and Dean had first met, and fingering the edge of the table.

"I've got the hard stuff, or the harder stuff. Your call."

Castiel threw a quick glance at Dean, but his back was turned.

"The hard."

Dean sniffed and extracted a bottle from the fridge, bringing over two whiskey glasses and all but dropping them on the table before Castiel. His portion sizes were generous, to say the least, and when he sent Castiel's sliding towards him, the force sent the liquid over the brim and left it trailing on the table surface. Dean didn't seem bothered by the mess and took a healthy swig of his own drink before thumping his hand on the table and breathing out wetly. "That's the stuff."

"Did yesterday's events prevent you from sleeping?" Castiel asked, mildly, taking a far smaller sip of his own drink and drumming his free knuckles against the table surface.

"Bingo." Dean raised his eyes to Castiel's and gave him a hard, wooden look that had Castiel looking away quickly and down to the mahogany colored liquid in his glass.

"Fuck… what he did. If they don't catch him…"

Castiel swallowed lightly and watched as Dean gritted his teeth and stared up at the ceiling momentarily, before sighing and looking back down to Castiel.

"Even if I find something, I don't know if it's gonna do anything. They have nothing on this guy. He used a condom. Shit, I just want to help her but I don't know."

Dean's lips parted with a wet snap as he leaned back in his chair and let his head fall backwards, shutting his eyes and grimacing. He sat in silence for a few minutes, shoulders shaking with a light tremble, before Castiel's stomach broke it with a gurgle.

Dean didn't open his eyes, or correct the posture of his neck, and his voice was flat and almost uncaring.

"Didn't you eat dinner, Cas?"

"No, I forgot."

Dean huffed with irritation and pulled himself forwards, pressing down on the table to heave his body up and propel it towards his cupboards. He opened one and stared into it aimlessly, before mumbling: "I've got – uh – stale pasta, less stale bread, cheese…"

He shut it and moved to the fridge, repeating the same exercise, rummaging and pulling out a box of eggs (performing a quick check of their best before date): "You take scrambled?"

"Dean, you don't need to-"

"Shut _up_¸ Cas. I'm making eggs." The words came out harsh, and Castiel bit his lip as Dean dragged himself over to the oven and turned the gas element on. It clicked as he waited for it to light, and Dean stared down as the flames licked at the air above them. With a sigh, he followed up, with a forced casual tone.

"I can poach them. Or fry. Though, I'm not gonna lie, I'm pretty-"

He froze and stared blankly at the element as the sound of papers falling came from the lounge. Castiel remained set in his seat, unsure what Dean had imputed from the sound, until Dean hastily stumbled out to the living room. Castiel stood quickly, his chair scraping against the linoleum floor, and hurriedly turned off the element, before following Dean out. As he reached the doorway, he witnessed Dean, bending to a messy pile of papers, each laying face down, white sides facing upwards and staring at the ceiling. That was, except for the page which Dean pulled out, whose subject was staring upwards, a twisted smile adorning his face. Dean contemplated it for a moment, before turning away and passing it to Castiel, letting it go before Castiel had a proper grasp on it. It fluttered back down to the floor and Castiel had to drop to his knees to retrieve it, while Dean staggered over to and collapsed in an armchair, letting his forehead drape against his kniuckles.

The image depicted a man with an evenly set jaw grimacing at the camera. In his hands he held the identification board for the police photographer, and assembled on its surface was a name: Alastair Gregorovich, in hastily stuck felt letters.

"I guess that's it then," Dean murmured softly, as Castiel turned his gaze upon him. For a moment, they did nothing but stare at one another, until Dean's lip began to tremble. Thirty seconds later he was enduring a full blown panic attack in his armchair, and Castiel had a hand wrapped round his forearm and was pleading with him cautiously, once again: "Dean I want you to focus on squeezing my wrist. Can you do that? As tight as you can, and then hold it. Dean?"

…

_An extract from the unpublished paper of Professor Castiel Novak (MA Berkeley, PhD Harvard) regarding his case study of the medium, E _

_What E offers, perhaps in contravention of his colleagues – at least, those inexperienced – is a dejected kind of charm that draws in even the disbelieving. Whereas an ordinary conartist relies on the spotlight of attention being shifted from the point of focus, E relies on his own malady being brought to the fore. Prominently, he relies on empathy and a victimized status as his means of ensnaring attention and focus, and encouraging the release of information._

_For the audience, that kind of conspicuous sympathy is a siren call in circumstance of grief. Not only does E promise the delivery of a message from a departed soul, but he packages it in a way that is utterly palatable. Earnest, simple, even sweet in its methodology. Almost unassuming, in a way that deprivileges the "gift" through which it speaks._

_The entire performance is fine-tuned in that aspect, in rather a remarkable package. More unique is the fact that much is generated subconsciously, from E's own desires anchored in other situations. His own unwillingness to reveal the location of that anchor – in trauma and origin – betrays its ties there. The gift relies on not being able to make sense of it, and so the prospect of illumination of the cogs of the mystery is itself a threat. And therein, the psychological key lies._


	5. That purges and

**CHAPTER FIVE**

One week later, Castiel found himself wandering up the driveway of a foreign, nouveau riche town house with a bottle hanging loosely from each hand. He'd checked the scrawled address twice while in the taxi, and skulked around outside for a full ten minutes in the vain hope that another person would arrive to the party early and spare him the mortification of what, he realized as the taxi passed out of his view, was an improperly thought out plan.

He'd arrived prior to the allotted 6pm start, having texted Dean and put his worries to rest – yes, he _would _still be attending the convention, despite a troubled situation clearly unresolved, and Dean could pick him up at 7pm, but Castiel would be unavailable in the interim – and had aspired to make his appearance succinct and to the point. The whitewashed walls of the freshly developed concrete block puckered with north-facing windows, however, had him rethinking that plan and wondering if Dean might retrieve him earlier than intended, despite the bitterness of their previous encounter.

But the sky was grey and there was a good chance of rain, and Castiel knew that he would freeze waiting on the corner of the street for Dean to arrive, if indeed he could be persuaded to operate as an unscheduled taxi service for the evening. And, contrary to Dean's words, he was not a coward. At least, not in relation to the matter at hand.

The key motivating factor, however, was simple: Castiel did not want to disappoint Amelia. And that was enough to propel him to the front door, between two freshly installed palm trees, and ring the bell.

It was Balthazar, and not Amelia, that greeted Castiel at the door. With a bottle of red in one hand and some sparkling grape juice in the other, it was impossible for Castiel to shake his proffered hand. There was a momentary flicker of awkwardness that passed between them, before Balthazar's smooth realtor exterior took over and he grinned before stepping forward to clap Castiel on the shoulder.

"Castiel. Good to see you. Please, come in."

He stepped aside to allow Castiel through the door into a tiled hallway. Two steps in, Castiel paused awkwardly, feeling distinctly unwelcome in his surroundings despite Balthazar's warm greeting. Less pressing, but still pertinent, was his inability to shed his trenchcoat with two hands occupied. Balthazar, ignorant of the dilemma, closed the door behind him and chuckled conspirationally as he moved to Castiel's side and looked up the stairs: "She's still getting ready. Here, let me take that."

He took Castiel's bottles and guffawed when he reads the label on the red. "How did you know? Come on, let's crack it open now."

With an inclined head, he lead Castiel into a starkly white kitchen. It was far more modern than Amelia had had a taste for when they had been married and lived together in a gaudy 70s creation that burned orange at dawn when the sun struck the pine walls. Castiel drummed his fingers absently on the cold counter top, glinting under the bright lighting and watched Balthazar's wedding-ringed hand as he poured two generous glasses from the bottle and held Castiel's out for a toast.

"It's so good of you to come, Amy'll be pleased."

Castiel didn't flinch at the easy nickname, but took a shot of his drink, staring at Balthazar as he swished it around his mouth before swallowing and pronouncing theatrically: "Excellent. Just the right richness. It's like velvet. Mm."

He set the glass down on the table, leaning across the marble and settling himself on his elbows. His shirt was open and loose, and as Balthazar changed his angle, the fabric hung down, giving Castiel almost a clear line of sight down his curly-haired and tanned (particularly for the time of year) chest. He blinked twice before looking away embarrassedly.

"So how's the teaching going? Meg was telling Amy that you have a new subject."

The fact that Castiel's occupation was a topic of discourse in the household was novel (although that it was between Amy and Meg hardly surprised him). Castiel kept his face impassive as he answered carefully: "Yes. A Medium. I'm writing a book about him."

Balthazar raised an eyebrow and cocked his head, jostling on his feet: "Your usual tough stuff?"

Castiel's fingers went to play with the stem of his glass, and he ran them up and down its narrow shape idly. "No... I'm not sure that my subject would appreciate that. The experience of writing it is intended to provide him with some kind of therapy. His treatments before have been unsuccessful."

Even though Castiel's answer was sincere, Balthazar chuckled and winked. He reached forward to grab at his glass again and took another swill, before a shift beyond Castiel attracted his attention. His eyes softened as Castiel heard Amelia's voice behind him: "Bal?" and the light track of her footsteps down the stairway. He turned to see Amelia pause halfway – necklace held out in front of her with clear intention. He caught the end of her unmanicured expression, before she quickly covered any surprise and travelled the rest of the stairs quickly, stepping forward to offer Castiel a short hug and a light kiss on the cheek. Her scent passed him by in a transient cloud, and for a moment, Castiel felt a tinge of familiarity at the back of his throat.

The perfume was new, and less floral than he remembered he preferring. But beneath it, nonetheless, was the familiar scent that he associated for years with reassurance and comfort.

Despite the strained circumstance, it was easy to momentarily forget he ought to withdraw from her embrace perfunctorily. Even as he stepped back, and Amelia made for Balthazar, holding out the necklace, Amelia's smell hung with him in emotional resonance – cycling his brain through a quickfire round of memories – honeymoon in France, lazy Sunday mornings in bed, Amelia sweating and her eyes drooping and sobbing as Castiel handed their daughter to her, and the feel of her hand gripping tightly for his and her eyes warm and loving on his face.

Amelia turned her back to Balthazar and held up her hair so he could clip the necklace there. Balthazar performed the task with expertise, and let his hands trail lightly along her delicate shoulders and down her arms, before leaning forward and dropping a quick, private kiss to her temple. Even across the kitchen island, Castiel heard his murmured "you look lovely", before Balthazar cleared his throat and gestured towards Castiel's offering.

Amelia blinked and smiled so that the apples of her cheeks swelled and turned bright upon her face.

Her use of the pet name was almost so incidental that neither she or Balthazar caught it. It was only when Castiel froze minutely in his movements in recognition that a hint of pink lit up the blusher adorning Amelia's cheeks. Balthazar, for his part, was quick to ignore it, reaching forward and twisting the lid off the bottle of grape juice so that the carbonates made for the lid with a loud whizz.

It wasn't chilled – Castiel had purchased it on the way – but Amelia took a glass anyway, and nodded her thanks to Castiel as she took a swig. Her hand dropped to her belly as she did, and she traced its swell lightly. Her dress made no show to smother her silhouette, instead draping around her growing belly proudly. It was a sharp cry from the last time Castiel had seen her, and she'd wrapped herself in a heavy winter coat. While Castiel had not been inclined for one moment to doubt her in her announcement that she was pregnant, it had been absent any tangible evidence until this meeting. His eyes hovered on her stomach despite himself.

Amelia, maybe sensing a rising discomfort, was quick to take Balathazar's hand and lead them both to the lounge. Castiel followed, staring determinedly at the floor, and sat on a couch opposite the pair, reaching forward to the coffee table where bowls of assorted chips and nuts had already been set up. With numbing fingers, he peeled a pistachio and popped it in his mouth, wincing at the crunch in an otherwise silent room, and Balthazar and Amelia exchanged a look. But Amelia was smooth and charming, as Castiel well knew, and she glided over the circumstance as though it were nothing.

"Castiel, it's wonderful to see you looking so well. I hear you've started a new study?"

If it weren't for nine years of partnership, Castiel might have missed the artificial pleasantry in her tone. With a press of his lips, he spared her further discomfort by assuming the same manner and nodding lightly.

"I was just telling Balthazar." He gestured between them vaguely. "He's a medium...quite young and quite unusual. I hope he'll bring something fresh to the debate."

Amelia's mouth twitched in a sort of smile that Castiel caught. He looked away quickly, however, and back to Balthazar – anxious to ensure that his attention was divided evenly between the two of them, as was only fitting in the circumstance.

"I'm sure you'll do well out of it. You always do."

With a sigh, Amelia leaned back against the couch, into Balthazar's arm which he had draped across its shoulder. Apparently without thinking, her hand dropped to splay across her stomach, and Balthazar's knees spread slightly, so that their thighs were aligned upon the couch.

"And how is the gallery?" He followed up quickly. "Your last show was wonderful, I'm sorry I didn't make the opening."

Amelia inclined her head, a strange mimic of Castiel's own habit, before waving him off. "Not to worry. We're planning something new for Autumn – a post-modernist exhibit, by a new artist that I've spotted." She leaned forward and took her glass of grape juice, taking a sip. "It won't be your cup of tea though. A little rigid." Her tone was teasing, and in spite of himself, Castiel smiled.

Balthazar, however, quickly punctured the moment. With a chuckle and eyes dancing, he cocked an eyebrow: "Really, Castiel, I'd have thought rigidity would be more your scene."

There was a beat before Amelia smothered the implication of the statement with a laugh, smacking Balthazar on the knee.

"It's the psychologist in him" she scolded playfully: "He likes to see emotion being confronted in post-modern work; its restraint is a little too symptomatic of certain disorders."

Balthazar was seemingly ignorant of the momentary misstep and looked to Castiel incredulously. Castiel only shrugged in response, and kept his gaze firmly away from the pair. "That said, I have always preferred the more historical works. The beginnings of the impressionists, in particular."

That gained points with Balthazar, who saluted him with a nod. "Now that I understand. Can't see the point of coloured in squares on a page. But, then again, I'm not the curator in the family."

Amelia was unbothered by the jibe, merely rolling her eyes and taking another swallow of her juice. "Exactly. I'll culture you forcibly if I have to." Balthazar looked to Castiel once, and chortled, as though he were in on the joke too.

A knock at the door had Amelia jumping from her chair, pausing only to adjust her hair in the hallway mirror, before bustling to the door. Balthazar and Castiel were silent as the listened in to the calls of enthusiastic greeting that echoed through the massive hallway.

"And... how is the real estate business?" Castiel asked politely, when Amelia's voice lead the new arrivals in the direction of the kitchen rather than the lounge. The change of topic, however, had Balthazar lit up.

"Booming, actually. Perfect timing – I've had some great commissions and we're set to upgrade this place before the little one arrives. Amy doesn't think it's very baby friendly."

Castiel was inclined to agree, as he stared at the plush cream carpet of the lounge. It was hard to imagine Balthazar scrubbing spit up and spilled mashed rhubarb from between its follicles. Balthazar seemed to be thinking along the same lines, for he looked up to see him carrying out a similar examination of their surroundings.

"You must be excited."

Balthazar raised his eyebrows and drummed his fingers on the back of the couch. "Terrified is better for it, between you and me. I'm looking forward to it, of course... they say it's just like riding a bike".

Despite the cruelty of the topic, Castiel offered Balthazar a generous smile and an even gaze. "Amelia is well-versed, you have nothing to fear. She is an excellent mother."

However well-intentioned, Castiel ought to have surmised the statement would not be received well. Immediately, Balthazar stiffened, and looked down to the coffee table, searching for a point of focus. "Yes, well...Actually, let me just get you a refill there. Won't be one second."

He quickly made his way out of the lounge, the half full glass in hand. He was far longer than a second, and when the sound of his braying laugh echoed from the kitchen, Castiel resigned himself to self-amusement and took to patrolling the room, searching a few titles amongst Amelia's vast collection. He smirked a little as he remembered that dividing their library had been perhaps one of the more difficult parts of the divorce, and they had debated mercilessly over which title belonged to whom. After so many years and so many houses together, it had been difficult to recall. Eventually, after they both grew tired of the argument in light of the events that had transpired, Amelia had created a ranking system and had awarded them each the titles that left them with the highest aggregate satisfaction.

Somehow, and Castiel traced the spine of the book with his finger as he thought it, that had ended with Amelia retaining a copy of his first published textbook: _The Mythology of Belief_, as well as his well-worn and well-loved copy of _Humanistic Psychodrama _by H W Gessmann. Somewhere in his office, too, was a pristine copy of Picasso's works.

Amelia laughed lightly as she re-entered the room, new guests in tow.

"Still sore over that?"

Castiel shrugged and withdrew his hand from the spine, pressing his hands into the pockets of his suit. "You obtained it fairly."

She rolled her eyes. "You can take it back, James. You know perfectly well you have more use for it than me. Now," she turned to her two guests, a couple pressed tightly together and grinning in greeting, "this is Balthazar's work colleague, Gabriel, and his wife, Kali. I'm not sure you've met."

Gabriel cheerily extended a hand and winked as he shook Castiel's, and Kali was quick to follow suit, with a firm grip and a million mega-watt smile.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, James."

Amelia's gaze flickered to Castiel's as she realised the couple had inherited the nickname from her use of it, and he covered it smoothly (to her thankful expression). "Castiel. James is my middle name."

"Oh, Castiel, that's lovely. Yes, it's a pleasure to meet you Castiel." Kali smiled brightly at him, as Gabriel spied Balthazar and wandered off absently, without so much as a word of explanation. Amelia, with an apologetic grimace, followed him with a plate of nibbles.

"Don't mind him," Kali murmured, as Gabriel and Balthazar clapped one another's shoulders and guffawed loudly, "he's only an imbecile."

Castiel ignored the marital jibe, sure it was not appropriately meant for his ears. "He works with Balthazar?"

"Mm. He's an imbecile too, but they're remarkably successful together. You mustn't let him worry you."

Castiel's head flicked around quickly, but he kept his surprised expression under wraps beneath practised blandness. "I'm not sure what you mean."

Kali pinched her lips together and surveyed Castiel's face quickly, clearly uninhibited in her observation of a total stranger. "I mean that he's awkward around you, but you shouldn't take offence. He's just worried to give offence."

Castiel's brow furrowed, noting Kali's obviously extensive knowledge of his past circumstance with Amelia. He prepared immediately to gloss over the topic, to avoid creating difficulty at Amelia's event, but Kali was quicker and far more skilled in her own change of direction.

"I understand from Amy that you teach psychology at the University."

Castiel blinked twice, before scratching at his neck, and acquiescing.

"I do. The Psychology of Belief mostly."

She smiled warmly, and despite the awkwardness of their preliminary acquaintance, Castiel found it pleasing in that it seemed sincere in its interest, and it was enough to thaw any residual tension.

"Psychics and mediums, all that jazz?"

Castiel nodded and leaned backwards against the bookcase behind him, hoping to obscure his textbook. "Yes. That's my particular specialty, but I deal with religion more generally too."

"Is that yours?"

He wasn't successful in his attempts to hide it from her, and Kali reached forward quite unreservedly to extract it from the bookcase. She twisted the book in her hands to check the name when he failed to answer immediately, before flicking over to the inside cover to see whether there was any depiction of its author. There wasn't, asides from a recognition of Castiel's teaching position, as Castiel well remembered; he had been very displeased with the prospect, considering it unacademic and tradition best reserved for historical romance fiction, and cheap crime thrillers.

"Ah, yes."

Kali continued through the book, flicking through the pages and letting her eyes scan the topics roughly and preliminary chapters. She smirked as she paused on one page, and her eyes followed several lines of text.

"Quite the sceptic, aren't you?"

Castiel shrugged mildly and returned to leaning against the bookcase, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"I consider it scientific."

Kali closed the book over her hand, keeping a finger to mark her page.

"My mother used to be very involved in mysticism. Palmistry, that kind of thing. My childhood home was full of crystals."

Castiel paused before he answered, unsure of her angle.

"Did you enjoy that?"

She inclined her head towards her shoulder, and let out a light laugh at Castiel's carefulness. "I wasn't bothered by it. It terrified my friends, of course, but I always found she had an eerie kind of intuition." She broke eye contact momentarily to nod in the direction of her husband: "she was quite convinced Gabriel was _the one_, even when I was considering the prospect of a restraining order."

Castiel nodded politely again, uncertain how to handle Kali's playfulness regarding her own marriage..

"And you acted on her intentions?"

She laughed brightly and shook her head incredulously. "Not at all. I was determined to prove her wrong, and Gabe persisted in being a moron. Yet, here we are."

Gabriel, at the other end of the room, told the punchline of what appeared to be an enormously rude joke, for Amelia looks appalled and even Balthazar only tittered nervously. Kali looked back to Castiel, rolling her eyes, in an expression that is clearly self-mocking at her predicament. "I think I'll ask Amelia if I can borrow this," she finished brusquely, "if you don't mind."

"Not at all."

Kali grinned and slid the book between her forearm and her body as a mark of her intention to keep it.

It was a divine mercy that Kali had been the first guest Castiel had been introduced to, for she was engaging enough that he was neither inclined nor obliged to move elsewhere.

Another half hour's conversation made clear that she was exceptionally intelligent and witty. He almost bemoaned the fact that Meg was not with him, to meet the woman who was clearly an academic brethren – Kali mentioned in passing she worked as a public prosecutor, specializing in cases of sexual harassment – other than the fact he was happy to enjoy Kali's company on his own. Amelia's backward glances to him over the course of the night, however, made him careful to pay too much attention to her, even when she continued in her forthright questioning regarding Castiel's line of work and his study of Dean.

"Are your lectures open to the public? I'd love to pop by."

Castiel scrawled his contact details on her business card and advised her to contact him ahead of time if she wished to make an appearance. Technically it was against University policy to invite guests to lectures without prior permission – a fire safety hazard. However, with notice, he could make sure the powers that be were informed and sufficiently content with the seating arrangements. Gabriel tracked the exchange from across the room, but hung his head when Kali caught his gaze and arched an eyebrow. When she caught Castiel observing them, she rolled her eyes and tutted once. "Please, I won't have him marking his territory like some runty pit bull. Besides, my carrying his child ought to be enough to buffer his security sufficiently."

Castiel's eyes dropped to her belly and she grinned. Her dress was loose and hid the evidence well. It was only then he noted she was drinking juice.

"Five months and barely showing. But everything is going well."

Castiel offered his congratulations with genuine enthusiasm and Kali accepted them graciously ("It's worked out wonderfully – Amy and I are due days apart"). They then descended into a discussion of early infant parenting that Castiel surprisingly found less than painful – perhaps due to the fact that Kali, a master conversationalist (made evident as they continued speaking) expertly shuffled around the subject of Claire. However Meg's arrival put an abrupt end to that conversation, when she made a beeline to meet them, and her playful bump of her hip to Castiel's seemed to give Kali the wrong idea. Kali excused herself politely enough though, gesturing towards her husband, who was enthusiastically waving an unlit cigar with far too much energy for the comfort of surrounding ornaments.

"She was nice. Were you interested?" Meg asked innocently, as soon as Kali was out of range. Meg's red lips were already twitching when Castiel turned to stare it her haughtily. "She is married, but I was enjoying speaking with her."

"Oh, lighten up Clarence. Let's get you another drink." Meg waved down Balthazar like he was a waiter and held out her hand in imitation of a hold around a wine glass. Balthazar, interestingly, obliged with a slightly petrified expression, although he didn't summon the courage to look at Castiel when he returned with a fresh glass of red. Castiel certainly didn't need another drink given he intended work for the evening, but he took it when Balthazar offered it and held it pointlessly at his chest.

Meg settled into conversation immediately, revealing her obviously pre-prepared strategy for distracting Castiel's discomfort at being hosted by his former wife. Apparently it was to detail, rather aggressively, the latest in her own research, being a pop psych work entitled (in typical dramatic fashion) _Men Who Kill_. By her account, there was already interest in producing a documentary with her as consultant, even though the text itself was only half-finished.

Castiel nodded politely and laughed at the right moments as Meg narrated her public takedown of a prison official who suggested she dress "less provocatively'" for her regular visits to the high-security facilities.

"He cannot have been briefed on your typical manner."

"He thought stilettos were a type of Italian chocolate, poor dear."

Meg grabbed a black olive from a passing platter Amelia was offering and popped it in her mouth, laughing around it.

"How about your boy? He working out?"

Castiel shrugged blithely and stared into his wine glass. "He's temperamental."

"Hm." Meg swallowed down her olive thoughtfully and smacked her lips to re-spread the color of lost lipstick. "What are the prospects?"

"I'm still uncertain. His case history is still very blurry. He's releasing it piecemeal."

Meg ran her tongue over her teeth beneath her closed mouth. "Diagnosis?"

"It's a preliminary stage, and I'm not a psychiatrist."

Meg shifted on her feet, crossing her arms and pursing her lips. "Doesn't matter. I know you've speculated."

"Nothing I'm willing to speculate out loud."

"Oh you're no fun -"

Meg let her mouth drop open and slide to the side, in an expression that clearly read indignance at having such a pretty toy dangled in front of her, only to have it taken away. Her eyes travelled in quick darts across his face, and Castiel knew she was measuring the best pressure point with which to extract her desired information. It might have been divine intervention, that Amelia saved him with such perfect timing, creeping up nervously with an anxious expression on her face: "James, there's someone at the door for you. A man, he says he knows you?"

Castiel stared at her momentarily, before the answer came to him, and he hurriedly reached into his pocket and extracted his phone. The screen was blank, and remained that way even after several presses of keys and a hit to the power button. It had run out of battery, preventing the call he had been expecting from Dean to warn him of his arrival so he could meet him outside. Beyond the lounge doorway, he heard the heavy clunk of boots and Balthazar's surprised exclamation: "_you're _a friend of _Castiel's_?"

Castiel excused himself quickly, crossing the room and leaving his wine glass balanced precariously on top of a waiting upright piano (an object, which he noted, seemed more an affectation rather than a utility, given Amelia didn't play and Balthazar hardly seemed the type).

He pushed past two people talking, both of whom he remembered vaguely from a showing at Amelia's gallery, before managing to make his way into the entranceway. Dean looked somewhat stricken in the hallway, with the weight of Balthazar's stare upon him. Castiel's arrival stirred him slightly, but the smile Dean threw him was still undeniably nervous, and he drawled only a quiet: "Heya Cas" in greeting.

Castiel swallowed and looked between them, before smiling embarrassedly. Dean quickly dropped his gaze to the floor and shuffled there, one heel thrumming against the tile. At Dean's refocusing of his attention, however, Balthazar took the opportunity to give Castiel a questioning look. Castiel quickly turned his attention back to Dean, to avoid the requirement for answer.

"I apologize Dean. My phone ran out of battery."

"Not t'worry. I found it all right."

Dean only looked up momentarily to acknowledge Castiel's apology, but his eyes caught beyond Castiel's shoulder as he made to look down again.

Castiel turned to see Amelia and Meg crowded in the doorway, eyeballing them both curiously (Meg simultaneously predatory in her expression). Anxious not to offer further explanation, Castiel stepped across Dean hurriedly and held out a hand to Balthazar.

"Well, we best be off, in any event. Thank you for a lovely evening."

Balthazar took Castiel's hand dumbly, without taking his eyes off Dean, and a question forming in his open mouth. Castiel quickly stepped back, turning towards Amelia and Meg to repeat Dean's awkward wave.

"It was wonderful seeing both of you."

He took another step back before further conversation could be forthcoming, and Meg snorted as the movement caused him to collide with Dean. When Castiel turned around, Dean was blushing, but he was quick to respond – moving back out through the open door, with a polite wave as farewell. Castiel followed as quickly as Dean's speed allowed him space too, and pulled the door shut with a quick nod. On the porch, Dean's expression quickly dropped the rest of the way and he stuttered out an apology: "Cas, I'm sorry. Kinda just assumed this was your place. Didn't mean to gatecrash."

Castiel wiped a hand down his face, giving him the momentary opportunity to compose himself into a more professional stance, before answering: "It was no problem."

Castiel looked over to Dean to see him blinking, without a trace of the sourness that had marked their previous encounters. Rather, Dean was riled up, and clearly uncomfortable about the mild disruption he had caused. Uncertain of how to proceed, Castiel cast his eye around the street and noted Dean's car – parked obnoxiously over the driveway to the house. Turning back to Dean, he inclined his head. "Shall we go?"

Dean's mouth twitched, and he nodded, before murmuring: "Yeah, sure." He lead Castiel in silence down the steps to the porch, unlocking his car and sliding into the front seat so he could lean across and unlock Castiel's door. As they were adjusting, Dean's eyes flickered across to Castiel's chest, and Castiel looked up to meet Dean's gaze questioningly. Dean's mouth twitched in a smile and he shrugged: "You should… maybe lose the tie. This won't be that fancy."

Castiel lost it as Dean started the car, and the cassette tape he had been listening to on the drive over blared out over the speakers – halfway through an exceptionally high pitched wail. Dean moved quickly to fumble with the volume, biting his lip, rather than laughing as he turned to Castiel apologetically.

"Sorry."

Castiel bristled beside Dean, but said nothing, and Dean quickly re-focussed on the road, turning the car out from the kerb without bothering to check his blindspot. Dean was an impatient driver, and he accelerated as soon as they were clear, forcing Castiel to fall back against the seat behind him. Dean shot him a glance before murmuring: "It's... it's about an hour out. City over."

Castiel nodded and leaned back in his seat.

"That's fine."

Dean's eyes slid across to Castiel, and he surveyed him quickly.

"You, uh… you didn't ditch anyone important to come with me to this, did you?"

Castiel shook his head, although he didn't meet Dean's gaze.

"Some friends is all."

"Oh."

Dean pressed his lips together as he stared out at the road, veering the car around a corner and accelerating again as soon as he had grip. His thumbs tapped out an absent rhythm against the steering wheel, as they moved onto a main road and approached a set of traffic lights.

"Have you had any more pains, since I last saw you?"

Dean shook his head as he stared out at the road, surveying what was almost an entirely empty street with a furtive gaze. He didn't bother to verbalize an answer, however, instead only whistling out a nonsensical note as the light changed to green and he was permitted to catapult forward again. Atop the steering wheel, the pace of his tapping increased.

"Have there been any other issues?"

Dean bit the inside of his cheek, but shook his head again, more vigorously. His eyebrow twitched as she stared out at the road, before he quickly leaned forward to fumble with the volume dial. When the wail returned to fill the car's interior, he looked back once to Castiel.

"Sorry, I just… need to get in the zone, you know?"

Castiel nodded in understanding, though his eyes tracked Dean when he turned back to face the road. Dean betrayed very little, however, staring intently down the road with single-minded focus – aside from the beat of his thumbs against the steering wheel. He didn't let up in his efforts for the entire trip, except when he hurriedly changed the cassette tapes as they ran out of content.

By the time they pulled up to outside a community hall, Dean was gritting his teeth. An artist's easel at the entrance proclaimed Dean's name in wide red letters, and Dean stared at it for a full minute before murmuring, without looking to Castiel: "You ready?"

Castiel nodded in response, but Dean didn't catch it from where his gaze was fixed in his lap. His fumbling for his satchel was enough to inform Dean of the answer, and he swallowed quickly before leaning over to open his door.

"Well, alright... Let's go then."

...

"I...She passed recently, am I correct in that? It's still... it's still a little raw, you haven't gone into her room yet?"

The shivering woman in the front row, pressing a handkerchief to tear-stained eyes nodded and gurgled as Dean stepped forward and laid a soft hand on her shoulder.

"I... uh, she's at peace now. I promise. And there's something she wants you to have. It's a... ah, she's calling it Cara... Carrol... Carrot? Uh, Carrot? I don't know if that makes sense."

The woman emitted a high pitched keen and nodded hastily, and Dean withdrew, pressing his lips together and bringing his hands to twist nervously at his chest. "Yeah, that's... well, that's all there, uh..."

He cast his eye about the room, and looked past Castiel, in the back row, in the corner seat, before continuing to scan until he landed on a bearded man in the centre of the room.

"You, sir... in the red shirt... there's uh, there's an older man here for you. He's- He's giving me R. R, does that mean anything?"

Castiel, despite being wedged between two convention-goers, leaned over his lap to scribble a few notes, generally regarding Dean's jittery demeanor on stage. While both his neighbors had stared at him curiously at first, and then later with vexed disdain, they had eventually conceded to his activity and allowed him to continue, shifting their focus to attracting Dean's attention and the prospect of his reading. There were a number of facets of Dean's posture that Castiel had observed – pinched expression, balled fists and erratic and directionless stepping in front of his audience. While it fitted well with his scattered language, it was stronger than Castiel recalled from previous readings, and he was quick to note it - _distracted, ill-engaged with audience, mood change within the hour_.

"You. You there in the beige coat."

Castiel barely even registered the statement until the man next to him nudged him and gestured excitedly towards the front, a clear resentment across his expression: "Hey! He's talkin' about you!"

Castiel looked up with a furrowed brow, certain he had misheard the man's statement but following his pointed finger obligingly enough. He froze when it lead him straight into Dean's focused gaze, and Dean gave a quick nod to confirm his identification.

"Yes, you."

Castiel titled his head at Dean in a question, as Dean dropped his hand and let his fingers curl into a claw shape shakily. With a hefty swallow, and the twitch of a muscle at his jaw, he quickly gestured to his side without looking away from Castiel.

"Sir, there's a little girl here. Only about three or four. She's got blonde hair and blue eyes and... she's beautiful, she really is. I-"

Castiel stiffened immediately, even before the words truly had an impact, and his notebook dropped from his hands to the floor below. His stomach fell with it, and he felt his mouth form the question, without any conscious volition: "What?"

Castiel's reply was voiceless, but he had no doubt, from the way Dean's voice moved to hurry through his statement, that its meaning was well understood.

"She's... she's telling me to tell you that what happened, it wasn't your fault. She's saying you and her mummy, you both-"

"No."

Castiel made to stand abruptly, halted only by the constraints of the tiny theatre chair he was occupying. The pause allowed his mind to catch up with him, and he immediately leaned down across his lap to scrabble for his satchel and heave it over his shoulder, while simultaneously searching blindly for his notebook. As he righted himself, the man beside him leaned over: "You alright?"

Castiel seethed and breathed out quickly through his nose, hissing with as much restraint as he could manage. "No. No, I am not. Thank you, I-"

He looked upward once, to see Dean still continuing, holding one hand out awkwardly beside his body, which was twitching frantically.

"Please, _daddy_. Please, just-"

Castiel stood properly then, meeting Dean full in the eyes and jutting out his jaw. With little care for his neighbor, he pushed out of the row, thundering up the aisle of the theatre. His exit drew confused murmurs from behind him, and for a moment, Dean's voice faltered at the microphone.

The force with which Castiel pulled the auditorium door open echoed throughout the room, as he wrenched it with a fury and sent the metal handle slamming into the wall. The door hurtled back at him as he rushed from the room, and his satchel caught on its other door handle as he tried to make his escape, such that he was forced to return momentarily to dislodge it. In that time, he looked up to hear Dean shout over a rising din: "That's all for tonight! I- Please, Cas, wait!"

A sea of faces turned towards Castiel as he managed to wrench his bag from the handle and stumbled backwards in his haste, rushing out through the entrance foyer and ignoring the pleas of a cardiganed old woman that he sign the association's visitor book.

The door to the courtyard outside got the same treatment as the first, as Castiel barrelled into the square outside the hall, searching aimlessly for a taxi that he already knew, in a town in the middle of nowhere, was unlikely to be found. His mind ran on a furious loop, in red flashing colors and loud blaring tones:_ How DARE he?_

The lack of immediate solution to his transport crisis was not enough to distract Castiel from his desire to put as much distance between himself and the building which contained Dean as possible. As he stalked across the courtyard, he fumbled in his pocket and shoved it furiously back when he remembered it was useless. It was the circumstance Dean seized on as he caught up with Castiel at a jog, calling out: "Cas, please. Please, wait!"

Castiel strode further and more purposely, crossing the square and reaching the sidewalk, before whirling and walking towards the greatest concentration of lights, which he aspired would lead him to a payphone or similar. Dean followed hurriedly, skipping over a few hasty steps to reach out and grab his shoulder: "Cas, please I-"

Castiel twisted in a fury, the force of which threw Dean's arm off him.

"What?! What could you possibly say to explain yourself?"

"I-… Cas, Claire, she needs y-"

"Get away from me."

Castiel turned again and continued striding forward, with such ferocity that the shoulder of his trenchcoat became dislodged with the effort of his purpose, and fell uncomfortably around his bicep, hindering the movement necessary to make a quick escape.

"Cas, she came to me. I can't just say nothing, I-"

Even though Castiel knew that nothing he could say would shatter Dean's illusion at the precise moment, the invocation of his daughter's name, and the preposterous, offensive proposition that her spirit would appear to _Dean_, was enough to have Castiel's tongue sharpening a retort: "Claire is dead! For God's sake, you callous…fuck."

It was a weak insult, but the vitriol behind it was enough to give Dean pause momentarily. His eyes went immediately to Castiel's mouth, noting the snarl forming there, but his eyes only softened and he continued in a relentless plea.

"Cas, please don't leave her. Please don't. She can't-

"Shut up!"

"Cas-" Dean reached out again as Castiel turned aimlessly in the street, torn between attempting escape and trying to banish Dean with his words. Castiel darted away from his hand, and his eyes narrowed as he stared Dean down.

"I am not your plaything, Dean. Leave me alone. I'm done with you."

The final words seem to have an impact on Dean and he finally stopped in his tracks, breathing harshly as Castiel turned around and commenced walking again. There was a cry riding over his angry breaths as he stumbled forward – a cruel cocktail of fury and despair that had him shaking to expel it, away from Dean's presence and his satisfaction.

When Dean called out, his voice was much softer, and there were tears behind it.

"Cas! Where are you going? How are you going to get home?"

Castiel kept walking, and Dean's voice rose in urgency: "What are you going to do? No taxi'll take you that far!"

Castiel felt his feet slow beneath him even though his heart pounded and his forehead sweated with the exertion of bearing his rage.

He heard Dean jogging behind him, but he carefully kept his distance – a courtesy that was perhaps too late coming. "Cas, your phone's dead, you can't call anyone."

Castiel felt himself weary as he brushed off Dean's statements, ignoring the obvious fact that Dean was completely right and however atrocious his behavior, this encounter would end with Castiel's concession. Nonetheless, his fury boiled and he shoved away from Dean.

The contact was mild, but Dean's breath stuttered in devastation as he fell away.

"_Please_. No no, Cas. I'm sorry. I fucked up."

Castiel shook his head as he walked, hunching over in his coat and staring at the lights before him. He needed Dean to be gone already, for the fury was boiling over and was quickly bringing on a tidal wave of something worse.

"Cas, don't-"

The dam burst within Castiel only a few furious steps from Dean. He walked up to a telephone pole, and slammed his palm against it. A moment later, the combination of the stinging pain that erupted up his arm and the pathetic futility of the gesture turned the tide, and Castiel fell sideways, bringing his other hand to hold over his mouth as his breath turned to tiny gasps through the gaps of his fingers.

There was a matter of ten or so seconds where Dean measured the change, before he ran up behind Castiel, catching him under his armpits, and hauling him upwards to support his weight. "Shit Cas, are you ok? Come on, let's get you sitting down."

Castiel stumbled as Dean lead him off the sidewalk to a small concrete wall that formed the boundary to the entrance to a dentist. His mouth fell open in a silent cry as Dean pivoted him, and lowered him until he was seated on it, directing his head to between his knees.

"I'm so sorry, please. Please calm down. I'll take you home, ok?"

"Ah. I-" Castiel's stomach pulsed, sending a constriction up his throat. "No. I-"

Castiel squeezed his eyes shut around a breath he couldn't quite take

"I-I can't." Castiel heard his voice shift an octave and his throat swelled with nausea, grief and frustration as he conceded to the welling emotion that was boiling in his stomach, swallowing around a breath he couldn't quite take and squeezing his eyes shut.

"…"

Dean reached out and grabbed at Castiel's shoulder, gripping tightly as he squeezed it, presumably attempting to divert Castiel's attention. It had no effect, and Castiel's spine shuddered as his head hung between his legs.

Dean's voice cracked above him. "I'm- I'm so fucking sorry. I'm so sorry. I… I was an idiot. I won't do it again, I promise. I… Please, please forgive me."

The first tear ran down the side of Castiel's nose, and onto his upper lip, dropping into the crack to tease at his tongue with a light flavor of salt. Even as Dean pleaded, Castiel could scarcely find the presence of mind to respond. Around him, he felt the claustrophobic constriction of memory beginning to take hold, and shake his body with its resentment for him.

"Cas, Cas, please, I-"

Castiel shook his head between his legs and gasped in a hurried breath in a moment of lucidity, swallowing around a sudden bout of nausea – his body's question as to whether it could expel the threat to him that way.

"Oh God."

"Cas-"

"Uhh."

Castiel pinched his features together in an effort to stop the expulsion. The tears squeezed out in any event, descending in trails across the lines that formed between his folded skin. They burned shame into him with each wet touch.

Dean's hands moved to pull Castiel upward, so he could search his face.

"Do I phone an ambulance? I don't know what to do?"

Dean's teeth were bared with panic as his eyes searched Castiel's face frantically. Castiel stuttered twice before shaking his head, and dropping his head back, opening his mouth in an almost yawn to draw in a longer breath. It had the effect he desired, slowing him temporarily and giving him some presence of mind.

"I can… I'm..."

Castiel forced a swallow, even though he felt like he was pushing a fistful of air down his esophagus with it. He raised the heels of his palm to his cheeks, wiping furiously at the tears there, before shutting his eyes and focusing on his breathing.

"Cas?"

"I'm… alright. I need a moment."

Dean's hand stayed firm on Castiel's shoulder, but he felt Dean go deliberately silent, holding his breath even as Castiel forced the panic down his gullet. His heart still thudded with the episode's aftershocks, and he could feel the tingle across his skin that marked his harried heart rate. With a small sound, Castiel pinched the bridge of his nose and hummed out an even note, willing his body to act as instructed.

It did so unwillingly, and a tremble remained at his fingers even as his breathing evened. A delayed bout of sweat broke out on Castiel's forehead, and he wiped at it, before dropping his chin to his chest and inhaling heavily. Dean let out a breath when Castiel went limp beneath his hold, and swallowed with less effort.

"She was mine, do you understand?"

Castiel's voice was lower than he'd ever heard it, and the threat across it was not of his own instigation, but it radiated there with a hefty warning.

"Cas, I'm sorry, I-"

"I was supposed to take care of her. And I let her get cut into pieces."

A small hint of bile rose in Castiel's throat, and he swallowed it down quickly, wiping at his mouth and opening his eyes. He noticed then, that a few members of the audience were watching him worriedly across the street. His firm glare was enough to set them walking away, murmuring quietly to each other and keeping their heads down.

Dean and Castiel were bathed in small pool of light beating from an exhausted streetlamp. It lit them in a dull kind of orange, and Castiel's hands were stained with it as he raised them to his view.

Dean swallowed beside him and removed his hands from Castiel's shoulder.

"I'm sorry." His voice was small, and fractured. He might have been a six year old for the devastation in it. It's tiredness spoke to its presumed redundancy.

"Could you take me home, please?"

Dean's mouth parted with a wet sound, but he couldn't manage the "yes", only answering by standing and reaching out to assist Castiel in following him. Dean dropped his hands as though branded, as soon as he was done. He stayed behind Castiel as he lead them both to the car in silence, teeth gritted and eyes unblinking.

On the ride home, Dean blasted the heat in the car far longer than it took to warm Castiel – the surface of his skin at least - until they were both sweating. Castiel might have complained, if he had had the nerve to find his voice. Eventually, he was forced to, when Dean apologetically asked for directions to his home, and Castiel showed him through a neighborhood clearly unfamiliar to Dean, and a small but manicured villa tucked away at the end of a long driveway.

When they arrived there, Dean looked over and it seemed he might say something. But he made no further effort than staring at Castiel intently as Castiel left the car, and fumbled with his keys at the door – a problematic pursuit in the darkness arising from a failed security light. It was only when his door was closed, and he was leaning with his head back against the timber, that he heard the sound of Dean reversing the Impala back onto the street, and speeding away.

…

Perhaps Dean was afraid that if he left matters to Castiel, they would never have another appointment. He would have been right about that. Castiel was certain, after his breakdown on the side of the road, that his relationship with Dean could not continue. It was not Dean, but his own folly that had ended it – he was a professional, and he ought to have expected that Dean would attempt to manipulate his past circumstance to prove his "ability". The only reason that Castiel hadn't confirmed the matter with Dean is that he was a coward, too nervous to see Dean again but unwilling to terminate the engagement without anything less than a face-to-face meeting.

Dean rectified that circumstance, in any event.

The news of the investigation into Alastair Gregorovich was kept quiet and out of the papers. Without evidence, that was to be expected. Still, even despite his somehow acquired proximity to the investigation through Dean, it was news to Castiel when Dean burst in mid-way through one of his tutorials, teary-eyed and manic, screaming: "Jesus Christ, they've let him go!"

As it was, Castiel bundled Dean quickly away from the twenty or so mildly petrified and shocked students and into his office, manhandling him almost rather aggressively by the shoulders as he pressed him down into his chair and stood across from him, breathing heavily. Dean was not ready to be pressed anywhere, however, and he arose with aggravation, eyes watering with ferocity as he stared at Castiel and hollered mindlessly.

Castiel whirled on him as his voice rose again, and beyond the door, passing students and lecturers paused and their tones turned curious as Dean's desperation rang out clearly in the stuffily contained room.

"Jesus Christ, Cas, how can you just stand there?"

Castiel shook his head and advanced forward towards Dean, hissing: "You need to keep your voice down. This is not appropriate."

"Appropriate? Fuck you!" Dean yelled, letting his spittle fly into Castiel's face with little more than a second thought and grasping at the back of neck in aggravation, lacing his fingers together as he tried to retain control of his breathing.

"They've let him go! He's going to get away with it!"

Dean's nostrils flared as he stared across the desk at Castiel, who leaned heavily upon it, and stole a glance out the door, at the silhouette of a nervous face trying to peer through the puckered glass.

"I need you to calm down, Dean."

"Calm down?! Cas, what the fuck? Do you even understand-"

Dean froze and stumbled backwards, hitting the wall behind him and descending slowly, his yells turning to gasps as another kind of unbridled emotion overtook him. Castiel moved forward quickly, eyes searching, as he grasped for Dean's hand and felt for his pulse searchingly.

"Dean! Are you alright?"

Dean shook his head and hiccupped as a sob ripped through his chest and he dropped his head between his knees as his entire body began to shake viciously with the force of it.

"Dean!"

"Shit." Dean leaned back, his head thunking against the wood of the wall behind him and felt at his stomach. "Shit, it fucking _hurts_."

Castiel pushed Dean's hand out of the way and rucked up his shirt to feel beneath it. At Dean's angle, he wasn't able to move the material far, and so pushed his hand under before he had the chance to properly appraise it. A moment later, Dean winced, but the kind of expression that betrayed it was not physical pain that had afflicted him. A moment later, he pushed Castiel's away from himself and curled in a ball in the side of the room, eyes wide and distrusting.

"Don't… don't touch me," he whimpered, almost soundlessly.

At the door, there was a cautious knock, and Castiel looked to it quickly. "One moment, please!"

Pursing his lips, and heart thundering, Castiel turned back and crawled forwards towards Dean. He recoiled when Castiel reached out to lay a soft hand on his arm, where it was covered by the fabric of his jumper.

"Dean, I'm sorry, I didn't."

"Get the fuck off me." Dean spat, before coiling in on himself and pressing his hands over his ears at the sound of another hammer on the door, and Meg's voice calling: "Castiel, is everything alright in there?"

It was not a question so much as an order, and Castiel – with only one backwards look to Dean, stumbled over to the doorway. He peeled it sufficiently open that Meg had a clear sight line to where Dean was cradling himself on the ground, without baring the circumstance to what appeared to be a growing, waiting crowd.

"It's alright. Dean's upset. I can manage it."

She arched an eyebrow and threw another glance to Dean, before pursing her lips.

"They've called University Security. You'll need an explanation, or get him off the property."

Castiel nodded curtly and met Meg's eyes gratefully. "Thank you. I'll sort it."

Meg only blinked at him, and her lipsticked mouth twisted into an expression of incredulity. Her gaze slid past the doorway back towards Dean, and her throat bobbed as she swallowed: "Somehow I doubt that, but you're welcome to try. I'll hold off administration."

Without a further word, she turned from the door and looked to a crowd of waiting students, dismissing them with a wave of her fire-engine red nails. "Run along now, or you'll all get detention."

"You can't give detentions at University," one student murmured incredulously, and Meg whirled on him, smile frighteningly placid.

"Shut up before I change that," Meg countered, before advancing carelessly on the group and making to walk through them. They parted for her easily and scattered their separate ways, throwing only a few more curious glances at Castiel as they scarpered, heads down. As Castiel shut the door of his office, Dean gave a quiet moan in the corner, and Castiel hurried back to him, taking a quick detour to fill a small plastic cup with water from the water cooler erected at the edge of the office and holding it out him.

"I would advise you drink."

Dean opened hooded eyes to stare at Castiel resentfully, shuffling his weight, before he reached forward and grudgingly took the cup, draining it and throwing its remnant to the corner of the room, before falling backwards and rubbing at his stomach.

"If you are hurt, I will call an ambulance. If there is an injury-"

Dean's chest rose once, in a silent angry laugh, and his eyes peeled open to watch Castiel with broiling resentment as he clutched at his jumper and pulled it over the injury. "They won't find anything. There's nothing there. Just mangled flesh."

As his eyes met Castiel's, he grabbed the hem of the jumper and inched it up slowly, revealing a cross-hatching of angry scars across his stomach, like a child gone mad with a craft knife, that twisted out from a hollow portion above his hip where the skin was saggy and swollen, sunken around a missing chunk.

"Train derailed. That's when I started seeing them. Took one of my kidneys and shortened my intestines. My sanity along with it."

His head fell back against the wall again as he stared at the ceiling, and let the hem of his shirt stay, giving a cruel peek to a mess of a body beneath, that fitted so poorly with his well-constructed face.

"I'm sorry, Jo. I'm so sorry."


	6. Pricks and purifies

**AN: My sincerest apologies that this chapter was delayed so substantially! There were a multitude of aligning circumstances that made posting impossible - eleven hour days at work, a holiday weekend away from internet, and then broken wifi at home. This chapter has been rather scantily edited as a result, and I'll attend to it later. I promise this will be an infrequent blip on an otherwise rigid updating schedule! I currently have drafts up to Chapter 17 so I assure you this story will not be abandoned anytime soon.**

**Thank you so much for all the wonderfully kind comments I have been receiving as of late. You all make me smile everyday. And I'm needing that right now - on the countdown to a major-time life decision. It's good to feel buttressed. I hope you all are having spectacular weeks (and if you aren't, you are welcome to commiserate with me).**

**CHAPTER SIX**

Despite his protests, Castiel took Dean to the Emergency Room and waited with him while the doctors cleared him of any malady extraneous to his severe emotional episode. The initial ED consultation was short. Dean was given a drip and a dose of painkillers to mute the worst of it. In the sobering surroundings, Dean's distress cleared quickly– contrary to its usual portrayal in the media, the emergency room was fairly quiet and muted, and most patients lay curled up in hospital beds with their eyes firmly shut.

Castiel had hoped that would have been the end of it, although it was a vain one. Dean refused to answer any questions about the source of his injuries and when the doctors, perplexed as to their source and unwilling to administer any further medication until they were certain, suggested a series of invasive (and no doubt costly – Castiel was certain Dean did not have insurance) procedures to get to the bottom of the matter, Castiel was forced to explain the series of events that had brought them to the room.

That lead to a psychiatric consultation. Dean might have been alright in being discharged that afternoon, but when he yelled at the nurse changing his IV to "shut the fuck up", without her ever having uttered a word, the doctors instructed he would be held overnight for observation.

That gave them the opportunity to survey Dean's medical records, which only served to agitate him further.

"I don't want to talk about it. The meds made me sick, I'm not doing it again. Can you tell them, Cas?"

The doctors' eyes turned to Castiel with veiled exasperation and they surveyed him quickly: "Are you next of kin?"

Dean snorted behind them as he lay back in the hospital bed, scrunching his eyes shut and grimacing. "You've gotta be kidding."

Castiel himself, despite Dean's expectations otherwise, was ill at ease at his surroundings. While he kept his lips pressed tight together for Dean's benefit, around the protest that otherwise threatened to erupt from his mouth ("_let me out of here!"_), he could feel himself sweating beneath his coat, and in the few minutes of conversation with the doctors, he loosened his tie four times.

"No. No… I'm a friend."

The doctor-in-charge – resident, specialist… Castiel hadn't quite heard when she'd explained her role, although he recalled she was a psychiatrist – eyed him suspiciously and her gaze dropped to her chart, which she ran her eyes down before settling on a point.

"Dean, your proxy during treatment was John Winchester – your father?"

Dean pursed his lips and nodded slowly, without opening his eyes. Tessa turned back to Castiel, and proceeded briskly. "I think it best we speak with him. If Dean's delusions are manifesting in physical symptoms, there are options for-"

Dean laughed openly towards the ceiling of the hospital, before letting his eyes peel open and meeting her gaze with evident denigration. "You need to update your records."

"Sorry?"

Dean sighed and labouredly pushed himself upwards in the bed. Castiel was a little too belated in moving forward to help, but Dean gestured for him to move away when he did make an approach and positioned himself on its edge – legs swinging to the side.

"He's dead. You call that number, you'll get a two year old answering machine."

Castiel looked down to Dean to find him already watching, waiting for a reaction. When there was none, his expression softened somewhat, and his eyes flickered back to the doctor momentarily, before he pleaded quietly: "Please, Cas, I just want to go home."

Tessa pulled Castiel out of Dean's room to correspond with him privately. Even though she was careful with her questioning, Castiel knew its intention, and he was instantly on guard. "What is your relation to the patient?"

Even though the door was closed, Castiel could almost feel Dean's eyes upon him. The answer rattled off his tongue, without consideration as to its ongoing accuracy. "My name is Doctor Castiel Novak. I am a member of the teaching staff at Carmel University and a registered clinical psychologist. I am currently overseeing Dean's treatment."

If Tessa was unimpressed with the informal arrangement, she said nothing, although her eyes roamed Castiel's face carefully. Despite his perspiring palms, Castiel met her gaze evenly and was confident she would not find his expression wanting – whatever lines of age or experience had appeared in Castiel's face over the years, it had been a long time since anyone had insisted that he was "too young", "too cute" or "too weird" for his espoused profession.

"Dean has had extensive experience in psychiatric facilities and has not benefitted from them, as you can see from his file. It is my professional opinion that a less orthodox method of treatment is required."

Tessa's forehead creased, and one of her eyelids twitched, but her gaze dropped obediently to review Dean's records and she nodded with a gritted jaw.

"What about the episode today?"

Castiel swallowed and chose his words carefully as he answered: "Dean has been experiencing delusions concerning a young girl from the area who was recently murdered. He has been suffering nightmares during which he believes he relives her sexual assault and murder. I believe the pressure triggered a psychosomatic pain in his old area of injury. But I wanted that opinion corroborated by a physician, which is why I insisted he attend the Emergency Department."

Tessa swallowed carefully and ran her finger down the chart, tracing the harried notes of the initial ED consult.

"Whatever it was, it's obviously subsided, and we can confirm that overnight. But, beyond that it might be best to-"

Castiel cut across her with a shake of his head. "If there is nothing physically wrong, I would prefer he is discharged. He is not violent, and I do not believe currently at risk to himself. The episode was an outstanding incident in what has otherwise been a positive response to treatment."

He held back a swallow at that, hoping his blank tone would be persuasive enough. Meg had often ridiculed him by suggesting that his manner was so sterile that it led itself to a conclusion of savantism – while he found the statement absurd, he willed it in that moment to have an inkling of truth, enough, at least, that he could be perceived as competent enough to escape the hospital's halls with Dean in tow.

If Tessa resented her territory being tread on, she said nothing, and gave only a vague sigh to indicate her disdain. Nonetheless, she cast her gaze back to Dean's doorway, before continuing somewhat resentfully: "If he won't consent, we don't have enough to keep him, especially if he stays lucid overnight. You already know detention under the Health Act would be excessive and our lawyers won't support it. But if you could persuade him to stay-"

"I doubt he will be amenable to it. I am happy to observe him for the next twenty four hours in the event of his discharge."

Tessa's eyes raked carefully across his face, before nodding. "I'd rather he stayed, but… We can get some painkillers for him, in case he has any associated aches. You'll want to keep an eye out for nausea, or any difficulties urinating or defecating."

Castiel breathed out a soft sigh of relief, and Tessa's gaze at once flickered to rake his expression again.

"Thank you," he murmured lightly, shuffling backwards towards the room. Tessa stopped him with a strict tone.

"And I'd recommend he stays on bedrest for a few days. Just to be sure there isn't actually intestinal damage."

Castiel nodded silently, and let Tessa move past him and back into Dean's room, where she explained her instructions. Dean's eyes glazed over once he was assured he would be released, but Castiel kept Tessa's attention focused away from him, until she eventually left, hooking Dean's chart over the end of his bed. Castiel left to use the bathroom while Dean waited for formal approval of his discharge, and by the time returned, Dean was pulling his belongings from a hospital paper bag, and preparing to leave.

He ignored Castiel's presence as he commenced unlacing his hospital gown, baring his back to Castiel's view, and Castiel quickly made to move around the curtain which blocked Dean's bed from view to the rest of the patients in the room.

"I'll… be outside."

Dean's eyes flickered to his question, and he snorted as Castiel hurriedly left the small enclave, pulling the curtain shut behind him. An older man in the opposite bed smirked as Dean called through the fabric: "You're such a prude, Cas." His tone was light and teasing – a slight recognition of the brief camaraderie that they had shared weeks ago, before the dominoes began to topple.

A few doctors passed by with various slips for Dean – prescriptions, instruction sheets and discharge forms, and Dean bounced on his heels until the final word came that he was ready to go.

"Thanks Cas." Dean stared at Castiel as they made their way down the wide corridors of the hospital and back towards its carpark.

"I am glad you are well, Dean. I was concerned."

Dean rolled his eyes, although there was little sincerity in the mocking. "Yeah, well..."

He all but jogged on his feet as they awaited the arrival of the lift that would take them to the ground floor, and Dean shuffled through the hospital at an incredibly fast pace. Castiel was content to follow him at the same, anxious to leave the familiar surroundings before he encountered something too memorial.

It was only in the carpark, away from the sticky linoleum floors, that Dean found the courage to reach for Castiel's arm. Castiel turned to him, ignoring whatever question Dean intended to ask: "Let's get you home – you need rest."

Dean's mouth set in a firm line, though a flicker of worry crossed his eyes, as he fell into hurried steps beside Castiel, keeping a careful silence as they made their way to the carpark and clambered into Castiel's small car.

…

When they arrived back at Dean's, Castiel took a moment to answer a voicemail message from Amelia that he had ignored while he had been in the emergency room, while Dean ransacked his kitchen for a bottle of "awesomeness" he swore up and down he hadn't touched – just lost. Castiel hadn't offered judgment on the need to drink at 3pm, nor had Dean looked for it. Castiel supposed there were larger matters to discuss.

"James?"

Amelia seemed slightly frantic as she answered the call, and Castiel faltered at the unexpected tone.

"I'm sorry I missed your call before."

"No. No… it's quite alright. I was just…"

There was the sound of a stamp in the background, and a murmured voice. Amelia shuffled and moved to block the earpiece of the phone with her body for a moment. Behind the shuffling of the receiver against the fabric, Castiel heard muted voices and the rising aggravation in her tone. He waited around twenty seconds, before Amelia pulled the phone back to her ear.

"Sorry, this isn't the best time. I'm being terribly rude."

"If you would prefer I can-"

"Of course not! Hold on…" Amelia's footsteps were audible across the line as she moved to another room. Castiel heard the sound of a door shutting, before she brought the phone back to her ear and answered. "I didn't have a chance to speak with you at the party. And I had been hoping we would have the chance to talk. Were you… free for a coffee this week? I can take a long lunch from the gallery and meet you at the University if you're-"

Castiel paused her, mid her unexpectedly urgent sentence, with a calmer tone: "Of course. If you name the day, I'll be there."

There was a relieved sounding sigh on the end of the phone. "Oh, James, thank you. Would it be best if I texted you some time?"

Castiel threw a glance back to the kitchen, where Dean was still bustling. There was no sign that he was attempting to overhear the conversation.

"Of course. I'll see you next week, whenever you're able."

He could hear Amelia's relief on the end of the line, although the reason for it remained mysterious.

"Yes. Yes, that'll be fine. I-I'll see you then."

There was a momentary beat on the line. Words might have gone there, had circumstances been different.

"Goodbye Amelia."

Amelia didn't wait before hanging up the phone abruptly, without providing a response. Castiel stared at the screen momentarily, wondering at Amelia's hurried tone, before Dean emerged from the kitchen, brandishing a bottle and two mismatched glasses.

"You in?"

Castiel looked at the glasses, pondering only momentarily. He nodded, and Dean seemed relieved, though his expression didn't change. With an incline of his head he gestured to the kitchen, and Castiel followed.

Dean settled heavily, huffing out a breath as he poured two even helpings of whiskey and slid one across the table at Castiel. Dean raised his own glass in a salute before Castiel even had a handle on his, and took several long swallows of his drink, grimacing when he set his glass back down with a heavy thunk.

Castiel watched him for a moment, before taking a drink from his own, letting out a wet sigh as he set his own glass down and interlaced his fingers in his lap. He breathed in heavily through his nose, sighing as he leaned back in the chair, reluctantly meeting Dean's eyes and staring resolutely.

Dean surveyed Castiel's face quickly, before dropping his gaze to the table too and bringing up his hand to support the weight of his head – pressing its feel into the side of his neck. Idly, he raised a set of fingers to trace at the rim of the glass.

"So… this is where you tell me we're breaking up?"

Even though there was a joke in it, Dean's voice was bland. He frowned at the table before him as Castiel considered his answer, but only sighed when he gave it.

"Given the events of the previous few days… By every standard of practice, I cannot continue as your psychologist."

Dean didn't react, only continuing with the trace of his finger around the glass. There was a squeak as he pinched his lips, and the movement drew a burst of air through the pursed part. Beneath his closed mouth, Dean ran his tongue over his teeth.

"Would it help if I said I was sorry?"

"It's not your fault."

Dean rolled his eyes, shaking his head simultaneously.

"Yeah, right. It's not you, it's me. Except that it is me. I fucked it up."

Castiel breathed in evenly before leaning across the table and bringing his gaze up to Dean's. He regretted properly witnessing his expression though, for it was destitute with sourness and glum acceptance.

"No. I breached standards of professional practice in speaking to you the way I did. It wasn't-"

Dean's eyes shot up quickly, and he stared at Castiel. "I don't care about that."

Castiel immediately looked away, lips thinning. "That doesn't matter. I do believe you can still benefit from treatment. And I have a number of colleagues that-"

"I want _you_."

Castiel went silent at Dean's words, unwilling to look up and witness the plea that laced his tone. Rather, he reached forward, and took a short drink of his whiskey, sighing as he cradled it near his chest. Even though Castiel's demeanor was firm, Dean took the resulting silence as an opportunity to interject.

"Cas, I know… with Claire… look, I'm sorry. Maybe it is in my head, alright? Maybe I am sick. 'Cos I've been hearing this voice and it was just… _begging _me to say what I said. And I knew that you didn't want to hear, but it got too loud and I-"

Dean trailed off, and even though he wasn't looking at him, Castiel heard the click of his teeth together that marked the clenching of his jaw.

"If I could make it go away, I would."

Castiel rubbed his lips together, spreading moisture across them, before throwing a tentative glance at Dean.

"Dean, I believe someone can help you with that. But it cannot be me. Previous events have demonstrated that I'm too invested in-"

Dean's mouth fell open in a protest. "Jesus _Christ_, everyone's got a hang up. Everyone! You think this is the first time someone has refused to treat me, or felt like it was too much? That's every _fucking _psychiatrist I've ever been to."

"I'm not a psychiatrist."

"_Exactly_. Cas, you're-" Dean let his fist thump down on the table and clench there with aggravation.

"Please, I'm begging you. It's you, ok. You're my last shot."

Dean's eyes flashed as Castiel's met his, and his face paled.

"What do you mean by last shot?"

Dean's jaw twitched, and he looked away. His fingers curled tighter around his fist and he moved his hand to his lap, staring down at his hands underneath the table.

"I didn't mean… I'm not threatening you, I'm just…"

The twitch at Dean's jaw raced up the side of his face to his left eyelid, which flickered with contained effort. With a set jaw, Dean looked back up to Castiel and met his eyes earnestly. He didn't look away as a light film of tears welled up above the waterline and hung there, threatening escape. Castiel stared as long as he was able, but eventually he was forced to look away.

Dean sniffed loudly, and reached for his glass again. When it appeared back in Castiel's vision, it was empty, and some white sticky substance from Dean's lips clung to its rim. Dean dropped his hand back to the table and his fingers drummed out a rhythm as Castiel stared down at the table's surface, tracing the whirls of wood. He bit the inside of his cheek as he felt Dean's gaze fall upon him and settle there – boring into the crown of his head with a hollow plea.

"Look, I don't have a right to ask. I know that. But if you give me a second chance, I promise I'll try. Properly this time. I'm sick, Cas."

Dean's breath shuddered slightly across the table. Dean sniffed again, and Castiel caught the movement of his hand towards his face. He followed it, and found himself greeted with the sight of Dean wiping away a single tear that had ridden slowly down his face.

"I _want _to help."

Dean's voice dropped and turned hoarse, and his entire cheek twitched as he stared at Castiel across the table. His lip curled, sending his nose to the side, that in another context might have indicated displeasure. "Then _help _me."

…

A second chance was not professional, nor was even potentially sensible. Castiel went into it almost callously with disregard for its consequence. The death of a child had that effect. It made every other aspect seem trivial by comparison. He'd told Dean he'd think about it. And at that stage, he had been certain that he would phone in a matter of days' time, and inform Dean, with regret, that he could not. He'd anticipated that might require Dean's committal – much as Dean had been quick to insist his words weren't a threat, Castiel was not certain he could take that chance on him. But Dean had inflated at even the promise of consideration, and from that point on Castiel had been impeded.

Dean's delight at the thought had been too fine to be an act. And Dean was ill and alone. If Castiel didn't help him, he had no doubt that there would be few left that would.

It was Dean who insisted that they attempt a traditional therapy session again, despite Castiel's uncertainty. And the first occasion upon which Castiel appeared at Dean's door, dictaphone in hand to record it for Meg's review, Dean had grinned so brightly that for a moment Castiel felt the doubt crawling across his skin evaporate. Dean's smile was broad in a way that Castiel hadn't seen since Claire, when she'd insisted that he knock on the door upon his return from the University every evening so she could greet him with a kiss. It was odd, seeing Dean's face so split. It was odder still, to feel the echo of the sense of being needed, once again.

Even though it was closer to dinnertime, Dean had brought a slice (from the supermarket, that was clear), and he'd set it up on a plate and cut it in uneven pieces that gave it the sense of home creation. He'd acquired a new set of teabags too, and he hastened to pour Castiel one as soon as he was seated, drawing his notepad from his satchel, bringing it out from the kitchen with a proud smile. It dropped halfway across the room, and he paused.

"It's… Earl Grey. Is that the one you drink? I didn't-"

"It's fine. Thank you."

Dean plastered his face with a smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes in the same way as the previous one had. He settled himself mug-less in the chair opposite Castiel, placing an arm carefully on each side of the seat and smiling nervously.

Castiel set the dictaphone on the table before Dean, and looked to him for approval. Dean gave a nod to indicate it - he was restless though, and he cut across Castiel before he even had the chance to properly start the session.

"So, what do we talk about?"

Castiel's gaze flickered up as he extracted his notepad from his satchel, and he blinked at Dean.

"Did you have a topic in mind?"

Dean scrunched his lips into a purse, and tongued the inside of his cheek, before – with a surprisingly easy expression – he answered: "I was thinking… my dad?"

"Your father?"

Castiel's surprise was audible in his tone, which seemed to please Dean. He shuffled in his chair, fiddling with the edges of the armrest, and his mouth twitched in a smile.

"Yeah… I mean, that's your bread and butter, right? Absent fathers?"

Castiel stared again, and Dean licked his lips before breathing out a laugh. "What? Can't be the first time someone's leveled that one."

Castiel's mouth twitched in spite of himself, and he looked down at his notepad to mask it. Across from him Dean snorted, and shuffled again.

"So, daddy issues it is?"

Castiel pulled the upper leaf off his notepad, clicking his pen and positioning himself so that the pad was seated on his knee. He let himself a small smile as he moved to look back up at Dean. "If you like." He was polite, but Dean seemed amused. Castiel was treated to a momentary flicker of teeth in his expression, before he looked down to his lap, shoulders jostling.

"Well, he's dead. You knew that."

"Yes."

Castiel noted it anyway, for Dean's benefit, and when he looked up Dean was watching him through light eyes. He arched an eyebrow when Castiel only stared at him in response.

"What is it?"

"Do I… talk? Or do you… like, ask questions?"

"I thought you'd done this before."

Dean's tongue poked at the inside of his cheek again, before he answered: "However you want me, Cas." His own answer seemed to amuse him, and he gave a chuckle, eyeing Castiel meaningfully until he offered another smile in response. That seemed to put Dean sufficiently at ease to continue, and he leaned back in his chair, settling his hands at his lap.

"Well… my dad… he basically raised me. We were on our own since I was six. Went our separate ways when I was sixteen."

"You left home?"

Dean shook his head. "It was more… well, yeah. But he wanted me out."

"Why?" Dean blinked at Castiel, and his smile faltered slightly.

"We…uh… never really got on."

Dean looked down to his lap momentarily and he pressed his thumbs together in a tent formation above his interlaced fingers.

"He used to drink. On and off. Some days we were good – one year we went to a fair. Another time it was a zoo." Dean's nose twitched and he brought up a hand to swipe at it. "Then other times he'd pass out on the couch and I'd walk to school. At first, anyway. Until I gave it up."

Castiel turned away from Dean to make a few notes on his pad – _neglected during childhood, changeable parental relationship, left regular social context._

When he raised his gaze back to Dean's, Dean was watching him again. "When I got institutionalized, he showed up. Signed the forms, but… he never stayed on for long. Doctors thought we had issues to resolve but he wouldn't have it."

Dean sniffed once, and thumbed at his mouth, before looking up at Castiel. His gaze was still open, earnest and trying, but the smile was gone.

"Ran himself off a straight road when I was twenty four. Vodka bottle in the back seat. That was it."

Dean pursed his lips, meeting Castiel's gaze evenly. Castiel surveyed him quickly, before murmuring: "Did you father believe in your ability?"

Dean snorted, before wiping at his mouth.

"'Course not. He thought I was a nut job. Or just trying to get attention. Not sure. Bastard never actually bothered to say. The moment, the spirits started appearing, he disappeared."

Dean gave another smile, although it was sadder and more forced. Castiel didn't bother to attempt to reciprocate it. He shifted in his seat, lowering his pen to the notepad again, but failing to write anything of note.

"Did you ever have visions of your father, after his death?"

Dean paused for a moment, before he shook his head vigorously. "No, never."

Castiel nodded, and made another note: _Fear?_

"Why do you think that was?"

Dean paused, blinking slowly at Castiel, before answering carefully: "What do you mean?"

Castiel held a beat around his words, before answering: "You've told me that spirits typically have matters that are unfinished. Surely, of any spirit, your father would have the most cause to speak with you"

Dean chewed the inside of his cheek in contemplation, curling his lips around an answer.

"I… I never thought of it too much… I was worried he would but, it was a relief really. Maybe he wanted to pass on. More for him there than here."

Dean sniffed once, and looked away, moving his gaze to the vicinity of Castiel's knees and fixing there.

"How did you know that your Father signed the forms at the hospital? Did you see him there?"

Dean shook his head slowly.

"No. There were lawyers, and they told me. I was kinda strung out so it didn't… didn't really make a difference."

"And how did you feel, when you left care and you knew your father had refused to visit you?"

Dean's brow furrowed.

"Like shit."

Castiel held his breath for a more forthcoming answer, which Dean (despite his supposed distrust of the psychotherapy process) answered with the ease of a person well schooled in its nature.

"Like I wasn't worth anything to anyone."

"You had no one else?"

Dean slid down in his seat slightly, and moved his gaze away from Castiel to his lap.

"No…uh, Cassie was around before I was committed. I think maybe she was involved in getting' in contact with my dad. But I never saw her. Everyone else thought I was wacko."

"You had friends that left when they found out?"

Dean titled his head to the side and contemplated the question.

"Worst they told me to leave. Best they worried I was… a 'danger to myself'," Dean raised his hands to emphasize the quote, "and they wanted me to go back into care. Eventually everyone just… fell off."

Dean scowled a little, before turning back towards Castiel and stretching a smile across his cheeks.

"I moved a lot. Hasn't been a settling point, apart from Aaron. I've got a few that keep an eye on me, like Bobby."

There was a flicker of genuineness in Dean's expression, which Castiel noted, and resolved to make time to meet with Bobby on another occasion.

"Do you see Bobby often?"

Dean's expression dropped almost immediately.

"No… just… when he can, I guess. I haven't been here that long, and I don't want to outstay my welcome so, I just…"

Castiel pressed his lips together, and surveyed the way Dean hunched around his spine in response to the thought. He leaned forward to take a sip of his Earl Grey, but detoured past to take a piece of the slice. The movement attracted Dean's attention, and his expression brightened when he saw Castiel take an interest in his offering. Castiel held up a piece in thanks, before taking a bite and leaving the rest on the side of his saucer. Immediately, Dean sat up a little straighter and his eager effort buoyed him a little.

His expression had been a gateway, but Castiel had not chosen to take it. Things were too preliminary, and Dean was cooperating well.

Dean had no such compunctions, however.

"You haven't asked me about the accident at all."

Castiel paused mid-chew of the slice – a ginger crunch that was a little too salty on the base. With a pained swallow, and a dry voice as a result, he answered: "I am content to talk about whatever you wish to talk about, Dean."

Dean paused for a moment, twisting his tongue in his mouth, before he answered. "Well, I mean… it's kinda the main event, so I figured you'd wanna…"

Castiel's eyes narrowed slightly, and the movement attracted Dean's gaze. Dean swallowed and then answered resolutely: "_I _want to talk about it."

Castiel's lips curved around the tiniest of smiles, which Dean immediately registered. It was the right answer, and he knew it. He leaned forward himself then, grabbing at a piece of the slice with satisfaction and shoving the entirety into his mouth. His expression was comical as he chewed – cheeks bulbous with the effort – and it lightened the mood oddly as Dean then settled back in his chair, face settling and considering his next option for explanation. His brow furrowed as he thought the matter over, before he raised his gaze to Castiel's and spoke evenly.

"Like I said, I was 22 when I started seein' 'em. Train ran off the line. Killed half the passengers. I got a spike through my side and one through my thigh and half my intestines taken out. Basically a flesh wound compared to what happened to some…"

He cleared at his throat and slapped a hand to his cheek, before running it down his face and wiping at his chin.

"I lost a shit ton of blood. It took the EMTs an hour to get to me, and by that stage it was touch and go."

Dean paused momentarily, hooded eyes looking back to Castiel. Despite the subject matter, he gave a small smile of encouragement – as though it were Castiel that needed reassurance.

"They said my heart stopped beating in the ambulance. And it was three minutes before I was back."

Dean swallowed slowly, drawing out the motion, before leaning slightly to the side of his armchair and settling there.

"There was this girl I was sittin' next to. She was really chatty. At first I thought she was hittin' on me, telling me about this… role playing thing she was into."

Dean's eyes dropped from Castiel's momentarily and his mouth tightened around a small smile.

"I thought she meant, like, some serious BDSM shit. But then she pulled out this phone and showed me this picture of her dressed up in like, some Lord of the Rings thing. She said it was like, a game or somethin'."

Dean's tongue ran around his teeth and he swiped at his jaw again.

"She was gettin' really into the intricacies of it when we derailed. And then we were on the floor and I was facin' away. I couldn't move 'cos of the spike, but… I could hear her coughing and…"

Dean's expression dropped suddenly, and his eyes crinkled at the corners.

Castiel immediately leaned forward, eyes searching.

"Dean, you don't have to-"

"No, I _want _to."

The answer was almost petulant with the frustration with which it was uttered. His face though, told a different story, as the history rewrote itself across his expression despite his clear intentions otherwise. With a shuddering breath, Dean raised his gaze to Castiel's and stared determinedly.

"I couldn't see what had happened, but… well, she died pretty fast. I told her to hang on… tried to stop her crying, but… it was all over so quickly. She stopped answering and I…"

Dean's spine curled, as though vomit were coming up his esophagus, but he swallowed it down with resolution.

"When I woke up in the ICU, I saw her… by the doorway. And for a moment, I thought that she'd just gone under but…"

Dean met Castiel's gaze like a competition, even as his lips began to shiver.

"She was dead. And she was the first."

The sound of Castiel's own swallow was audible in the room, as was the wet part of his mouth when he opened it.

"What did she want from you?"

Dean blinked twice, before looking away and shrugging. "I don't know… I thought she was real, and then there were doctors and I was getting scanned for brain injuries and… that was that."

Castiel was not at a loss for what to say – years of practice dictated the appropriate response to such a confession. And Dean's reaction – the desperation he had to believe in the spirits – was textbook.

But, somehow, in watching Dean's cheery exterior peel off to witness the despair beneath was enough to silence the response on his tongue as somehow paltry and undeserving. Dean accepted his lack of offering without any remark – snarky, pleading or otherwise – and leaned forward to take the glass of water he had prepared for himself, drinking around half before setting it back down.

"This the kind of stuff that's useful to you, Cas?"

Castiel met Dean's eyes with a question, but Dean carefully kept his expression blank.

"I appreciate your candor."

Dean's face colored immediately, and he gave a quick nod to signal his agreement. "Yeah. Well, I promised."

The silence that descended was not pained. By contrast, it perhaps felt properly appropriate following the weight of Dean's substantial revelations. No doubt, Castiel believed, they would have to revisit them all in due course – for the proper examination that therapy required. But yet, even if covered only loosely, they were symbolically more. And Castiel was content to allow Dean the relief of nothing further.

The silence was short-lived and interrupted, as it so often seemed to be when Dean was around Castiel, by the buzz of a telephone. It was Castiel's rather than Dean's, and he extracted it from his pocket leisurely, intending to deny the call when his eyes registered an unfamiliar number. His brow furrowed and Dean raised his own in question, leaning forward as Castiel pressed the green phone handle to pick up the call and raise it to his ear as he stood and made to move out of the room. He was stopped by Bobby's rough growl and urgent instruction: "Is he with you?"

"What?"

"Dean. Have you seen him? Is he with you?"

"Y-yes."

Castiel turned and watched Dean carefully as he rose and looked at Castiel questioningly, before advancing, eyes fixed on the telephone and bristling with intention to listen in. Castiel pulled away slightly and turned, loosening his tie as he spoke into the phone. There was a ragged sigh on the other end of the line.

"Jesus Christ, thank God."

A few papers shuffled in the background and Bobby barked an order in the opposite direction to the phone.

"Bobby?"

"I can't say anymore. You positive? He was with you?"

"Several doctors and nurses can attest to it. Bo-"

Bobby hung up on him without another word, and Castiel turned back to Dean, eyebrows raised.

"What did he-?"

Dean froze, mid-question, and stared at the floor of the room as though it had revealed something to him, before he raised his eyes to Castiel's lip trembling. In a moment, his face twisted into an expression of panic, and his eyes raised to the ceiling: "Jo? Jo!"

He moved past Castiel and ran up the stairs, still yelling the girl's name as he paced from room to room, pulling doors open and staring into them. Castiel hurried to the stairwell, resting a hand on the rail and looking up to Dean. Dean ignored his calls though, as he stumbled back down the stairs and pushed past Castiel to return to his lounge.

Castiel followed him there too, and found Dean with both hands interlaced atop the crown of his head, breathing heavily and chest heaving.

"Shit, Cas. I think-"

He broke off and thundered over to his TV set, flicking it on and stepping back, palms pressed together and held at his lips. The news was focused on the conflict in Syria, but that didn't perturb Dean, who merely stared at the screen, lips pleading something silently around his fingers. His face was roughening quickly – lines appearing at the corner of his eyes and his mouth twisting so that his cheeks were pulled taught against the bone.

They watched through a full hour of coverage before they came to what had concerned Dean. During that time, he ignored Castiel entirely, and took to pacing in front of the TV, palm clutched around his forehead and growling.

Halfway through the news program, the attention turned to a news report which showed a woman garbed in a red coat, standing in front of a large cordoned off property that blazed varying reds and blues as lights of police cars glanced off it. Beneath her, a small banner read that the report was "Live".

"The neighborhood of Frankton was horrified this afternoon by police discovery of a body in the residence behind me. Police were sent to the site after a 911 call in which a neighbor reported the sound of a man screaming."

The image flickered to a shot of four police cars assembled outside the site, two of which still had their lights whirling. Most of the officers had covered their faces with caps and kept them low to shade their faces. Bobby was not visible, but the connection was obvious, and at Castiel's neck he felt the prickle of goosebumps rise up to his hairline, making the thin hairs on his neck stand to attention even in the warmth of the room.

"The body is believed to be that of Alastair Gregorovich – a previously convicted felon on sexual assault charges. The police have not yet made a statement on cause of death, although it is suspected there many have been foul play. More as it comes to us, I'm Bela Talbot with AVN News."

The television continued to play, even as Dean turned to Castiel slowly, eyes widening in disbelief, while his jaw clenched and twitched at his side. Dean was careful to silence any accusation, though his face reddened with the effort. With a grit of his teeth and a pinch of the bridge of his nose between his fingers, he ground out: "Cas, how can we fix this? How am I supposed to let this go?"

…

Meg offered to accompany Castiel on his next visit to Dean, although Castiel politely declined. As far as he was concerned, there was little cause for immediate concern, though he did concede her point that Dean was certainly pushing the boundaries in establishing the parameters of the study.

Meg's face had pinched when she had listened to the audio recording.

"He's almost _too _willing. Which is genius. He's read you like a book."

"I'm watching for it."

Meg was visibly irritated – one heel positioned on her desk and her toe bouncing back and forth as she surveyed him, arms crossed. "If he's volatile, you need to control the circumstance more. Don't give him too much control."

"This is a vast improvement from his previous manner."

She set her jaw and glared at him squarely.

"I'm not sure you should be interviewing him at his home. It's too much on his terms."

"Where would you suggest? I can't allow him back in the University."

"Get a hotel room."

Her retort was snappy and Castiel looked away in response, a little irritated and certainly none prepared to commence a conflict. Meg was a good enough friend to note that though, and as she slid her boots from her desk, she continued softer: "Look, your study, not mine. And I'm not trying to tell you what to do. But he's a difficult case. You want my advice, that's what I'd do."

Castiel sighed and pulled his trenchcoat around him a little. "I genuinely want to help him, Meg. If being flexible is what's required."

"Of course you can be flexible." She slid out from behind her desk and crossed to the opposite side of the room, looking down at him in his chair. "But now you're going to have to give a police statement saying that he was where he says he was to clear him of a murder inquiry. Boundaries, Clarence. There's a reason for them."

"It was an unusual circumstance."

Meg rolled her eyes. "Of course it is. And we all get cases like this that test us. I get it plenty at prison, believe me." She shoved her hands into her jeans. "Just… watch yourself."

Castiel wiped at his eyes tiredly, and they were bleary when he re-opened them. "I won't let him get to me."

"We all say that, but come on. He's smart. Smart enough to have figured out from that phone call what had happened. You can bet he's done his research on you too, and he'll be looking to extort that."

Castiel stayed silent, failing to note that Dean had already made a beeline for that particular topic. His own reaction to it, of course, he was even more anxious to keep a secret. It had been a momentary slip up, out of shock more than anything. And he would be better adjusted to it should Dean made the ill-advised decision to attempt to partake in it again.

It was fair for Meg to be concerned, of course. After all, it had been she who had been the sole barrier between him and mental catastrophe after the accident. And it was almost entirely due to her intervention that he and Amelia were still on speaking terms. And Castiel, unwilling to touch the subject as he was, was immensely grateful that Meg had scarcely ever demanded anything in return for the multitude of casseroles that she had cooked for him, her assistance with the moving boxes, and her watchful eye since then. To see her work undone because of Dean's interference would no doubt be frustrating to her, and Castiel owed her that much – to hold it together.

"I promise I'll be careful. I understand why you're concerned, and I'll be sure to recognize my limits, if it comes to that."

Meg huffed in response but she was merciful enough to leave the topic alone. The nudge of her hip to his shoulder was their equivalent of a hug before she let the topic drop, and moved to the windowsill opposite Castiel, resting her hands on its edges.

"You're a good friend, Meg."

Meg only smirked and stared Castiel down. Her survey was brief and perfunctory, but whatever she garnered, it seemed enough to justify her intention to change conversational direction. With a huffed laugh, she cocked her head and waited until Castiel met her eyes with a question as to her silence. "Is that all? Whatever happened to thorny beauty?"

The joke was only lightly barbed, but nonetheless Castiel colored and looked away immediately, rubbing at the back of his neck.

"That was six years ago. And I was intoxicated."

Castiel's muttered dismissal was light enough that Meg seemed content, and she laughed properly as she turned around and settled herself on the windowsill, crossing her arms.

"I like drunk you. And I don't think I've ever seen Doctor Visyak look so scandalized." She sniggered and let her head fall back against the glass. There was a brief pause as they both momentarily revisited the particular evening in question where Castiel, during the course of the faculty Christmas party, had attempted to serve as Meg's wingman during her pursuit of the visiting Doctor Samuel Andriel.

His choice of words for her adulation – selected through a haze of sherry – had been immortalized in the faculty since, and had even been a subject of derision from Amelia (luckily, a highly trusting wife): "She is, of course, pre-eminent in her field, which I'm sure you agree recommends her. And, _hic_, something of a… thorny beauty."

Castiel had no recollection of the incident, though Meg had assured him, with tearful eyes that when Doctor Andriel had queried his superfluous praise, he had pulled him in threateningly and growled in his ear: "Don't ask stupid questions".

It hadn't been Castiel's intention to get drunk at the party, but Claire had been born six months previously and the combination of his first social occasion since then and a swathe of sleepless nights had rather gotten to him.

Meg's expression went fond with the memory and Castiel conceded his own smile. With a nostalgic sigh, Meg pushed herself off the windowsill and moved towards Castiel's desk. "I say, when you need some relief from the project, we go out drinking together again. I could use some more laughs, and you could do with some loosening up."

"I'm sure you are the only one that would appreciate my intoxication."

"That's enough to justify it, as far as I'm concerned. I'm going to send you an outlook invitation. Don't you dare decline."

Meg's gaze flickered up to the clock above her door. 1.39pm.

"I've got a lecture at 2. Best get going."

Castiel quickly stood from his chair and brushed off his coat. "Of course. How are 304?"

Meg shrugged and lead him to the door. "Duds. About two useful ones in the whole lecture."

Castiel laughed at Meg's brazenness, knowing that such strictness was hardly fair of her teaching methods. For all that she complained, Meg was a determined instructor, and had a reputation for turning out high caliber graduates in the criminal psychology area.

"I'll see you soon. And I'll think about what you said."

She winked at him. "Good. I'm itching to see you on the dance floor."

She laughed lightly again and she touched his shoulder on the way out.

"Good luck, Clarence."

…

The police did conduct a cursory investigation of Dean following the identification of Alastair's body. Dean's statement, in which he stubbornly disavowed knowledge of Alastair's death, was quickly corroborated with Castiel's own and a report from the autopsy technician hypothesizing Alastair's time of death.

Castiel's witness statement was hardly necessary, but they obtained it any event for completeness. To be honest, he suspected that it was conducted solely for the purpose of Bobby checking in on Dean by proxy, for he conducted it himself and his brow furrowed when Castiel gave his account of Dean's psychosomatic episode.

Later, the news outlets reported that the death had been ruled as a suicide. Alastair had supposedly fallen from an internal balcony within the house to the cold and unforgiving tiles beneath. Dean spat at the news report as he watched it, Castiel beside him upon one of his ratty armchairs – drinking tea rather than the further whiskey Dean was favoring – and shut off the set before he could be aggravated further, leaning backwards in his chair and sighing.

Castiel had tried for all of one occasion to conduct his sessions with Dean elsewhere to his home, but Dean had been reluctant and suspicious, and Castiel was disinclined to offer a further explanation.

"Have you seen Jo, since the incident?"

Dean shook his head slowly and swirled his drink in his glass, though he made no further attempt to drink it, apart from staring forward blandly. "She'll have passed on now. She doesn't have a reason to stay." He pursed his lips and stared at his drink, before taking a draught and looking to Castiel, awaiting the next investigation with a kind of resignation.

The evening was a dark one, and the lights of the lounge were weak to illuminate it properly – such that Dean seemed illuminated by a candle-like light, rather than an electric one. Within it, his face seemed softer and more vulnerable as he surveyed Castiel for a betrayal of his own feelings on the subject. Eventually, he conceded with a sigh, and moved back out of Castiel's sightline. "You don't believe me, do you?"

Castiel paused and waited for Dean to soften before he pronounced his conclusion: "I believe you experienced a hallucination."

"Yeah, well, you're probably right." Dean pronounced blandly, before looking to Castiel curiously, his mouth falling open slightly as he took a careful breath through it.

Castiel's notepad was on his lap, though it had long since been abandoned when Dean had, despite his earnest attempts, failed at proper cooperation. He twirled his pen between his fingers though, as Dean chuckled with a mordant kind of humor and turned his gaze back to the television.

"You know, for a psychologist, you don't ask that many questions. Most guys, they'd turn that around on me."

"How do you mean?"

Castiel shifted forwards in his chair and watched as Dean stretched languidly in the chair, before sinking into a slouched posture, and balanced his glass on his compressed stomach.

"It'd always be about me, and like, what I thought of things. If I said that, they'd say 'why do you think I would think that?', or something like that. How would I know?"

Castiel bristled a little as he moved for the first time in an hour to make a note – _faithlessness in profession_.

"This book is a different kind of therapy. If we can construct a life narrative through its writing, it might reveal-"

"Yeah, yeah, alright Cliff Notes. I don't need the explanation. I just need the cure."

Castiel pursed his lips and sat back, flipping his notebook closed and sliding it back inside his satchel.

Dean smacked his lips twice, before shifting in his chair to sit a little straighter and admiring the remote that he held in his hand.

"I got a call today. Different kind of case, if you're interested. I'm seeing them tomorrow afternoon."

"What is it?"

Dean shrugged. "Dead person, what do you think?" He colored at his own blaseness, and turned to Castiel in apology – only to be caught halfway by an errant thought that seemed to cloud his vision momentarily, before he looked to Castiel guiltily and turned back.

"You can come if you want."

"Do your clients consent?"

Dean sniffed and rubbed absently at his nose. "I'm not taking money – they're hardly my clients. But… yeah… I cleared it with them already. If you want."

Castiel flipped his notepad again and made a quick note within it. "What time shall I meet you?"

"Here. 2pm. I can drive us." His eyes flickered cautiously to Castiel's. "I mean, if that's ok?"

"Of course. It makes sense to take one car."

With a nod, Dean leaned backwards and turned towards the television again.

Though Dean was silent for most of the evening, he was visibly lighter-hearted by the time Castiel left, and even saw fit to clap Castiel on the shoulder once with a misplaced kind of camaraderie. When Castiel only looked at him, Dean seemed shocked himself at his actions, and shoved his hand back into his pocket quickly and gritting his teeth.

Castiel shrugged on his trenchoat at the threshold of Dean's home, and Dean watched with an amused nonchalance as he made his way across the paltry garden to his car. He fumbled inside his satchel for a few minutes before unlocking his car, his keys somehow having become dislodged from their usual pocket. By the time he was done and they were recovered, Dean's doorway was closed though his security light was still on and illuminated his shadow moving beyond the curtains in the lounge.

Castiel drove home somewhat reluctantly, and sighed when, upon pulling up in his driveway, he realized his own security light had malfunctioned. He was forced to fumble at the door, searching for the lock, and grope blindly inside for his lounge light. Once inside, he drew his shower out for as long as possible, and trawled reluctantly to bed.

That night, he dreamed of Claire and a summer he and Amelia had spent with her as a fat-legged toddler on the coast.

It was the first time Claire had seen the ocean, and she had screamed blue murder as Castiel had held tight around her waist and lowered her toes into the waiting water, while Amelia stood knee deep in the surf with a camera to capture the moment. At first touch, Claire's cries had ceased with the shock of it, and she had gurgled with the aftershock of her fear into Castiel's T-shirt. But fascination and wonder soon cast out the worry, and by the end of the summer, Castiel had coaxed her into hanging onto sitting on his shoulders as he waded out up to his chest. Claire had screamed with delight at the feeling of weightlessness he had bounced them in a prance over the waves. They were small bumps only, but Amelia watched cautiously from shore, shaking her head, while Claire screamed in delight at each crest. By the last week, Claire had even gotten up the courage to lift one hand from his head and raise her hand in a wave to her mother.

The following year she had begged and pleaded with Amelia to let them return to the ocean. Castiel's work commitments kept him at the University for part of it, and Claire and Amelia were forced to go at it alone, apart from one blissful week he managed to scrape away in the late summer.

Two months later, Castiel was bandaged and attached to an IV and screaming in the emergency room as a misinformed nurse wheeled a covered bed past his cubicle. The sheet had been thrown haphazardly over Claire's body and had not quite covered her blonde hair, matted with blood and shriveled into vein-like tendrils on the sheer white mattress. Amelia had been beside him, but her grip around his hand had been tight and bruising.

"No. Nooo. Auuuuh."

In Castiel's mind, the waves turned black and pulled Claire from his shoulders, and he screamed and hollered as the water sucked her out. On the beach, Amelia's face turned to stone and when he dragged himself back to shore, she left him to cough his lungs out, digging a hole in the sand and burying herself there while he plead with the wet earth to return his daughter.

…

_An extract from the unpublished paper of Professor Castiel Novak _(MA Berkeley, PhD Harvard) _regarding his case study of the medium, E _

_The trauma to E's body is not an uncommon history amongst those of his kind – being those equipped with the ability to see spirits. While most mediums attest to the ability having been endured throughout their childhood unaided, the majority speak to a tumultuous event provoking and concentrating the ability into the marketable form upon which the majority derive their livelihood – economic or, at the very least, social._

_What E speaks too is a sense of purposelessness following tragedy. In the face of catastrophe, perceived worthlessness is a common response in survivors – "Why me? Why did I survive?" There is a self-inflicted kind of pressure for one's life to mean something in the face of disaster – to echo the sentiments of lives lost, tragically cut short. That meaning, for E, emerges in the spirits._


	7. Every hollow part

**AN: Thank you for your well wishes last week! I'm almost there - this time, next update, my life will be taking a different turn! I'm waiting with bated breath.**

**My apologies for my delays on replies - I have read and am grateful for every single one, and I will write you soon! Our internet has been off for four days straight, and only just recovered (in time for the update - huzzah!)**

**I hope you all had wonderful weeks!**

**Love,  
>Liffe<br>xxx**

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

In the end, Amelia and Castiel arranged their lunch the morning of its due date. The late notice was hardly a hindrance – as Amelia well knew – Fridays were notoriously easy days on campus, when students far preferred to skip their afternoon's lectures and head home for the weekend. Castiel was scarcely ever required to attend his office hour for a graduate's request, and that afternoon was no different.

They met at a small café ten minutes' walk from the University, and Amelia had already ordered their drinks when they arrived – a latte for herself, and English Breakfast for Castiel. He seated himself silently before her as she smiled, a flicker of nervousness crossing her expression as he met her eyes, before she resolved herself and greeted him in earnest, with a quick squeeze of his hand and a warm grin.

"How are you, James?"

"I'm well."

Castiel's response was cordial enough, and he gratefully raised his tea before her and taking a sip, without adding the milk and sugar on display before him. Amelia smiled lightly, and raised a hand to the waitress, who hurriedly brought them two laminated menus and gestured to a blackboard above the counter.

"Specials today are a seafood chowder and a butternut pumpkin soup, served with homemade sourdough rolls."

She smiled politely as Amelia dismissed her with a nod, and bustled away to immediately begin clearing a table near them for the lunchtime rush.

Amelia's hand ran across her swelling belly as she read the menu, and Castiel's eye was drawn to it. She caught his gaze with a somewhat guilty expression, and her eyebrows raised, before Castiel followed with: "And how are you? Is everything proceeding well?"

Amelia nodded quickly and dropped her hand from her stomach.

"The latest check ups went well. We know the sex now too."

Her mouth twitched as Castiel's gaze dropped to her belly again and surveyed it.

"A surprise?"

"Not for you, if you want to know."

He felt a muscle at his neck twitch and looked up to find Amelia watching him carefully. There was a happy flush on her cheeks, even despite the cruelty of the circumstance that they were meeting over, and her face seemed fuller somehow – as though the skin were swollen with it. A stark contrast to her tone on her previous call.

His answer was silent – in an arch of an eyebrow – and she was well-practiced enough in his language to read it immediately.

"He's a boy."

Amelia's cheeks flushed bright red with the declaration, as though she could scarcely believe it, and her hand moved to her stomach again brazenly, clutching tightly.

Castiel felt his stomach twist at constrained emotion and forced a smile across his cheeks, dragging them to the sides of his face and baring his teeth in a pleasant expression. Amelia read the reluctance in it easily, despite his best efforts, and dropped her gaze.

"James?"

Castiel met Amelia's gaze and held it silently. Her expression dropped immediately, even though he said nothing. Across from him, Amelia shuffled. With a sigh, she lowered her voice, so her tone was soft. Her words, however were sharp.

"You know, I'm not betraying Claire, by having this."

There was a beat, before Castiel looked away guiltily.

"Of course you're not," Castiel adjusted in his seat, looking away from Amelia, and moving his hand to undo the top button of his dress shirt as he turned his eyes to the menu before him, scanning it sightlessly.

Amelia continued in any event, clearly unpersuaded: "I was 30 when we had her and… to have a second chance-"

Castiel cut across her, before the history between them could be too properly traversed.

"I do not begrudge you your happiness, Amy."

Amelia's eyes flickered up in challenge to Castiel's regardless, picking up on the forced tone of the exchange and moving straight to its heart.

"It's been three years. You cannot keep punishing yourself."

"Can we change the subject, please?"

Amelia pursed her lips and sniffed, before reaching for her latte and taking a sip. By the time it was back down on her plate, a smile was plastered on her face, and her tone was light and forced.

"Meg says you've been busy with your new study. Has it been interesting work?"

Castiel didn't raise his gaze to hers in order to respond, but gave an obvious sigh of relief in response and a moderate answer.

"Yes."

Castiel swallowed quickly at the sharpness of his tone, however, and quickly reached to take a sip of his tea, before murmuring, as though his previous indiscretion had not yet occurred:

"Yes, he's very….enigmatic."

Castiel watched as the mark of a frown appeared on Amelia's brow, which she attempted to smooth with a forced smile, though the action did little.

"You seemed… friendly, when he arrived the other week."

Castiel inclined his head slightly and met Amelia's eyes uncertainly. "He was in a good mood. Things are not always so courteous." Amelia's lips pursed around the bowl of her latte in a tight laugh and her eyes flickered up to him once. Things were tense still, but it was a hard habit to break – to be pleased at seeing her content – and a corresponding small smile spread across his lips.

"So… is he clairvoyant too, or…?"

"No. And no spirit guide either. He has a rather unique style… it makes for an interesting study."

Amelia nodded and deposited her bowl back on the table.

"I have to confess, I… googled him, after he came to the party. Just… he seemed a little unusual. Not your usual sort."

Castiel's eyes surveyed Amelia's quickly for a moment before he swallowed.

"No not at all…" Castiel agreed quickly. "But… that will make the study promising I hope. It's in its preliminary stages but... I should be able to publish off it."

"That's great." Amelia's smile was genuine and, another habit, Castiel felt himself swell with pride at being able to share that with her. Amelia, who Meg had always insisted was beyond his league – two Masters in Art History and Curation, her own successful gallery, beautiful, witty, kind and who had (incredibly) consented to bear his child. They might have parted poorly, but in the easier moments, she still bore a special shine for Castiel. It was the same shine that Claire had worn.

"He hasn't tried to talk about…" Amelia broached the subject nervously, with fingers fiddling at her bracelet. Castiel hurried quickly to dissuade her concern, and the lie felt acidic on his tongue:

"No. No. Of course not. It's a very professional relationship."

He fought to meet Amelia's eyes, rather than look away – it was his tell, he knew, and one that Amelia knew well. If she detected his concentrated effort, she didn't say.

"Well, that's just wonderful. Really. I'm so happy for you."

She reached across the table to squeeze Castiel's hand once, before smiling as the waitress approached to take their orders.

"I'll have the Ravioli, please?"

Castiel gestured between them: "The same for me, thank you."

The waitress returned the smile as they handed back their menus, and her gaze passed between them and Amelia's pregnant belly. "Coming right up".

She didn't say 'congratulations', but it was implicit in the fondness of her expression, and Amelia colored as she walked away. She looked back to the table, rather than Castiel, and tapped there with manicured nails.

"I hear you're planning on moving house."

"Oh, yes." Amelia seized on the topic quickly, leaning forward on the table and raising her gaze back to the conversation.

"You would just love it, James. Gabriel – do you remember him? From the party? He was Kali's husband."

Castiel nodded quickly, and Amelia grinned.

"He actually found it. It's just perfect. It's just one storey, with the largest back yard you've ever seen. And the light is- Wait…." She fumbled in her purse, extracting an iphone and flicking through it. "I took some pictures on the visit, look-"

She held the phone out for Castiel to take and he flipped through the images, smiling lightly as Amelia launched into a narrative of the process that had brought them to its purchase.

"We were so lucky. I mean, it would have been snapped up so quickly. Gabe really spoiled us."

She took the phone back with a grin as Castiel passed it to her. "You know, if you were ever looking at finding another place … I'm sure he would be only too happy to help."

Castiel shook his head mutely. "I'm happy where I am. It's close to the University."

"Oh. No, of course. I just mean, if you ever did want a bigger home, for…" She trailed off, and her hand went protectively to her belly, making clear the meaning behind her statement.

Castiel flashed her a disingenuous smile.

"I'll bear it in mind."

Amelia held her breath for a moment, before rushing out: "Have you met… anyone?" She looked as if she regretted the question before she had even asked it, and immediately turned her attention to her latte and swirled her spoon through it pointlessly. Castiel huffed out a little expression of incredulity.

"Amy…"

"You know, Kali couldn't believe it when I said you were single. She thought you were an absolute catch."

Castiel appreciated Amelia's quick rectification of her error, and smiled lightly at her to demonstrate his forgiveness.

"That was kind of her to say. I'm sure her husband wouldn't approve though."

Amelia rolled her eyes and leaned backwards as the waitress returned with their meals.

"Thanks."

Castiel gave a thankful smile to the waitress too, as she cleared their drinks away. They took to their meals quickly, and the breaks between chews were hardly enough for Amelia to continue her line of questioning. Asides from a little small talk regarding the house, and Amelia recounting a dinner party she had hosted with Kali and Gabriel, it was easy to forget the subject. The moment his fork was lowered though, and he was brushing his napkin across his face, Amelia's tone turned serious again and her eyes wide as she watched for Castiel's reaction.

"You know James… there was something I wanted to ask you though."

"Go ahead."

Amelia pursed her lips and took a sip of water before picking up her fork and moving it idly around her empty plate.

"I… well, feel free to say no. But…" She swallowed. "Look, maybe this is inappropriate, I-"

"Amy, just ask. I promise, if it is, we can let it drop."

Amelia's hands dropped to the table and she moved to finger a bracelet at her wrist. It was a heavy, gaudy thing – engraved with a brassy emblem of flowers. He didn't remember her owning it when they had lived together, and it shone like a recent acquisition. He wondered idly if Balthazar had bought it for her.

"When the baby comes… well, I'm not sure how to phrase this…"

She blushed and moved to fiddling with her engagement ring on her fourth finger. There was no wedding band yet – after the baby and the new house, presumably, though Amelia had never let him in on the exact plan.

"Look, it's not like… godfather. But I wondered if you might… if you might want to be… involved. With him."

Amelia's words were utterly unexpected and Castiel froze at the opposite end of the table. Amelia obviously registered or anticipated the movement, for she didn't even look up from her wrist, only biting her lip and murmuring:

"Look, I know it seems odd. But… well, James, you were such a wonderful father. And, if you don't have plans to try again, I… I don't want all of that to go to waste."

Castiel swallowed quickly and spoke around a cracked voice. "What… about Balthazar?"

Amelia colored and stared more determinedly at the table. "I won't lie, it's not like it was his idea. But… look its more symbolic than anything. I just want you to know that you're welcome. And that this… _chasm_," she pronounced the word with difficulty, gesturing between them without raising her gaze, "between us… it doesn't extend to this little boy. I know it's going to be awkward, but… well, I'd rather have you there than not. You were always made to be a father."

Amelia's words punctured the balloon blown between them that kept history from reasserting itself, and the table swam before Castiel as Amelia's words reverberated back to him in a series of memories, in which the words had been bestowed with fond eyes and soul-dropping kisses.

The first time, when Amelia had staggered from the bathroom, tears in her eyes, holding a thin white stick in her hand. They left it by the coffee table as they made love on the couch, and Castiel had kissed and kissed at her belly, murmuring love for the child just yet made and for the woman so wonderful as to create her for both of them.

The second, when Amelia was three months pregnant, and her nephew Jesse had come to visit. Castiel was nervous and awkward and suddenly terrified that he would soon be responsible for such a small, precious thing and had been stilted around him. That night, when he had stared at the ceiling for hours, doubting his own capacity for anything so important as parenthood, Amelia had laid his hand across his stomach and promised with whispers in his ear that he would make a wonderful father.

The third time, when – one month to go – Amelia had sent him to the baby store to stock up on nappies and creams.

"We're going to be exhausted when she comes, James. No one's going to want to go to the store then".

He'd come home with her requests, and another stuffed bag full of glittery ballet flats, a princess costume and a red and white polka dotted dress made for two years olds. Amelia had burst into tears when she saw his offerings, and heard his feeble excuse: "They were… I just thought they were cute."

The fourth time, when Castiel had held his daughter for the first time and dropped a trembling, tearful kiss to the crown of her head while Amelia looked on – still panting and sweating from a sixteen hour labor. He'd never loved Amelia more than in that second, for she had created the most beautiful thing. And when he had looked down and whispered to his daughter: "You look just like your mother. Your most beautiful, wonderful mother. Thank goodness", Amelia had burst into incredulous laughter and pulled him close to kiss his lips. "She has your eyes, you idiot. They're the loveliest part."

Birthday parties, children's playgrounds, even severe telling-offs when Claire threw a tantrum in a supermarket, or tried to draw on furniture. So many moments where Amelia had looked at him proudly, and he had felt the surest certainty that he knew what he was doing – all encapsulated in that one word, despite every other achievement. Father.

"Castiel?"

Castiel looked up blearily to find Amelia watching him, seemingly stricken. "I'm sorry, it's too much. I-"

Castiel held up a hand and wiped at his eyes quickly. "It's nothing. I just need a moment."

The waitress kept her eyes cast downward as she came to collect their plates, although she cheerily accepted Amelia's thanks and request for the bill. Once the girl had departed, Amelia reached forward and squeezed his hand.

"You can take some time to think about it if you need. There's no rush. I mean," she reached down to her stomach, "there's still a few more months. Plenty of time."

The girl returned with their check and, even as Castiel fumbled for his card, Amelia waved him off. "This one's on me." He flicked her a grateful smile, replacing his wallet in his bag. They sat in silence until the girl returned and Amelia signed the receipt.

"I best be letting you get back. I'm sure you're busy."

"Yes."

Castiel's stomach swirled as he reached down and took his satchel, hanging it on his shoulder. With a beat for consideration, Castiel moved around the table and dropped a kiss to Amelia's cheek, squeezing her elbow as he moved away. She leaned into the touch minutely – not with the sense of romance that used to be there, but for the sake of the small comfort in the wake of almost pronouncing Claire's name. As the space between them closed, Castiel felt the brush of her swollen belly against his, and a rush of saliva erupted on his tongue in predecession to bile at the familiarity of the sensation – and the distinct hollowness that now remained where he'd once felt ownership of the idea.

She was smiling lightly as she pulled back, and let her hand drop from Castiel's arm, slinging her handbag across her shoulder and looking up at him in a silent acknowledgment of grief.

"We'll talk soon. If you'd like."

Castiel nodded briefly and let Amelia lead them from the café. She met his eyes once more on the sidewalk, before turning and making her way to an unfamiliar and garish vehicle that Castiel presumed was Balthazar's. He waited until she was settled inside before raising a hand in farewell, and she waved back once, before reversing slightly and giving herself the space to pull out onto the quiet street.

The walk back to the University was a fraught one, as Castiel mulled Amelia's suggestion over – with equal parts anger at the dismissal of Claire, and gratefulness at her kindness and the prospect of a little less loneliness in future.

His afternoon at the University passed quickly, mostly responding emails and assembling papers. There was one from Meg, with her invitation for an event simply titled "Drinking". Attached was also the latest chapter of her book, for peer review, and labeled as "READ ME!" Castiel grinned, downloaded the attachment to his desktop, and reached for his phone as it buzzed with a text.

As expected, it was from Dean: "We still gd?"

He texted back a solitary "yes", and proceeded back to the University carpark and driving directly to Dean's. Ten minutes early, Dean still answered the door before he had the chance to knock, with a wide grin.

"Glad you made it, Cas. Come on, let's get going."

Dean, despite is good mood, was silent for much of the car ride, aside from tapping out a rhythm across the steering wheel and whistling a few notes – none of which appeared to bear any melodic relationship with one another. Twenty minutes into the car ride, however, he turned to Castiel and stated, with seeming expectation for a positive response: "I met someone yesterday."

Castiel's eyes narrowed as he turned to face Dean and raised an eyebrow.

"Where?"

"On the street."

His face drained of color as Castiel balked and his mouth opened in protest.

"No. Shit. No I don't mean..."

There was a beat before Dean's horrified expression cracked into one of laughter and he turned back to check the road, slamming his hands on the steering wheel.

"Jeez, Cas, you should see your face. Oh my God." Dean shook his head in amusement, eyes flickering between their path and the flush rising on Castiel's cheeks at the misunderstanding.

"I'm not that desperate, man."

He ran his hands along the surface of the steering wheel a few times, and he tapped out an amused beat while his laughter subsided.

"Actually…" he bit his lip as he turned back to look at Castiel, "it was kinda creepy. I though this guy was following me at first. Well, he was. I actually started running."

At Castiel's second blanche, Dean chortled and looked over apologetically.

"Ok, it's not like it sounds. But this woman met me as I was running the other way. They kinda herded me, but…"

His shoulder twitched and he looked back to the road, rolling his upper half once, twice, before settling back in his seat. "When I calmed down, we got to talking. They were passengers on the train. The one that derailed. Well… some of them. Others had relatives that didn't make it."

His expression dropped momentarily and his eyes ran across the road ahead in a quick survey before he turned back to Castiel.

"We went and got a coffee, and just talked… about what had happened."

His eyes flickered to Castiel's satchel at his lap, and back up with amusement.

"Isn't this the kinda stuff you'd usually wanna write down, Cas?"

Castiel stared for a moment, before tapping his temple with two fingers. "I'll remember."

Dean whistled and grinned, before turning back to the road. "I feel great, though. You know? Like the weight of it has just gone. Especially after what happened the other week."

Castiel didn't acknowledge the exceedingly quick timeframe between the abrupt changes of attitude towards the accident. Dean's mood swings were not unexpected at this stage, and the circumstance which he spoke of provided a comfortable explanation for the change. "I feel like…this is the beginning of fixin' it. You know? You, and now these guys… I know part of this whole therapy thing is working through the past. Maybe this is the start of it."

He grinned at Castiel once, and turned back to the road, head swinging to some kind of silent melody that had enlivened his spirit. Castiel settled back in his seat and let Dean fumble with the radio, pressing a dusty cassette tape into the player and slamming his head down when the shrill scream of a guitar pierced the car.

When Castiel turned to him slowly, eyebrows raised, Dean blew a raspberry at him childishly and grinned.

"Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole."

Castiel kept his cakehole well and truly shut for the duration of the journey, until an half an hour later, Dean pulled into a well landscaped and modern driveway of a kind of cottage situated in the outer suburbia of Carmel. The sounds of the Imapla's doors shutting were enough to draw out its resident – a small yet muscular woman, wrapped in a long soft cardigan, with her hair cut short and swept across her face. Dean smiled and extended his hand to shake hers while Castiel extricated himself from the car, and she inclined her head at him in greeting while Dean gestured politely at her garden. When Castiel was beside them, she lead them inside quickly and to a small sitting room, already equipped with biscuits and tea.

Dean wrinkled his nose at the pot, but smiled politely and accepted the offering when the woman's eyes turned to him, although he kept his lips pursed around the rim of the mug as he took a draught.

The woman offered Castiel the biscuits, which he declined, but accepted a tea from her, before she sat herself in the armchair next to Dean's. A moment later, she stood and reached out to extend her hand to Castiel, flushing: "I'm so sorry, I've forgotten my manners. I'm Jody Mills."

Castiel, halfway through his tea, managed to cough out a gruff: "Castiel Novak."

With a twitching smile, Jody took his hand and shook it firmly, before seating herself again and crossing her legs in front of her. "I understand you're a psychologist, Castiel."

He nodded, settling back in his chair and looking to Dean, who shrugged.

Her mouth twitched as she wrapped her cardigan around her tightly: "You must think me something of a fool."

Jody met his eyes evenly, but there was embarrassment there too as she crossed her arms in front of her chest. Dean looked to Castiel quickly and raised an eyebrow in warning. Castiel noted it and refrained from pulling his notepad from his satchel.

"I'm here with an open mind, Jody."

"Hm." She pursed her lips once, and raised a hand to brush her hair from her forehead, before holding her fingers before her lips. "Truth be told, I feel a little insane for this. It's not usually in my job description to rely on this kind of thing."

"What do you do?"

Jody huffed out a small laugh and brought her hand back to her lap. "I'm a cop. Deputy Sheriff, actually. On leave at the moment though. My colleagues think I've been overworked. Maybe I have. I mean…"

She looked up at Dean and flushed in embarrassment. He merely shrugged and leaned forward to take one of the proffered biscuits, stalling mid-munch when he realized how audible the crunching sound was to the otherwise silent room. With one final chew, he swallowed, only to cough viciously a few seconds later as the dry crumbs caught in his throat.

Jody rolled her eyes in a positively motherly fashion and retrieved his tea for him, and Dean, despite his disgust was forced to take it from her and drain it in order to force the expulsion to stop. When he was done, Jody was holding back slight laughter, and Dean was affronted when he looked to see the same was true for Castiel across the table. There was a playful joke in Dean's eyes though, as he turned back to Jody and encouraged her to continue with a light nod of his head.

She misconstrued it though, and looked around the room cautiously. "I-is… he here?"

Dean looked at her for a second, before considering the room once and shaking his head.

"There's no one here right now. But…" he stood carefully and moved around the room, running his hands over items and hovered in the doorway to the hall looking down it.

With a question in his posture, he turned back to Jody uncertainly and pointed down the hall with an arched eyebrow. When she nodded, seemingly out of confusion more than anything else, and he proceeded down the corridor without further permission, running his hands along the walls and pausing at certain points.

Jody stood quickly to follow him, looking at Castiel as she passed and murmuring: "What is he doing?"

Castiel shook his head in lack of explanation and stood too to follow Dean, in time to see him pause at the end of the hallway before a closed door and look to Jody.

"This is where you saw…?"

Castiel turned to see Jody freeze at the end of the hall and nod. Dean twisted the handle without awaiting further explanation, stepping into the room and looking around – pausing halfway through his rotation, before sighing and gesturing quickly to Jody.

"Yeah ok. Come in here."

She hurried down the hallway after him, and Castiel followed in a fast enough pursuit. Inside, he found Dean standing in a bedroom – equipped for two, but with a sense of staleness on one side. Two bedside tables were arranged at each end of a queen-sized bed, and while one was haphazardly adorned with reading glasses, a pile of books, and a few bottles of pills, the other was pristine and untouched and the duvet was smooth and un-creased. At Castiel's glance at the pills, Jody met his eyes evenly: "Insomnia," she muttered unflinchingly, albeit almost with a tone of excuse, before both their gazes turned back to Dean as he rotated around the room.

His attention fell to the wardrobe and he pulled open its doors, looking to Jody for permission, before running his hands along a well-maintained set of men's clothes that smelled musty – even across the room where Castiel stood. Dean's brow furrowed as he took the edge of one and inspected it between his fingers, before turning to a vanity at the edge of the room and picking up a framed photograph – featuring Jody and a smiling bald man, both of them garbed in outdoors wear and heaving heavy tramping packs across their shoulders. Their cheeks were pressed together tightly and the angle was awkward – but it was a pleasant picture. Human, in its deficient aspects, Castiel thought mildly.

Dean traced the edge of the photograph with his fingers lightly, before inspecting is corner as well, turning back to Jody and murmuring: "T-Tom?"

Castiel gritted his teeth as Jody stiffened beside him, before she whispered: "I-i-is he here?"

Dean's brow furrowed and he searched the room quickly, before shaking his head. "Not really. He's on the periphery… he's… he doesn't want to frighten you. The last-"

He looked back to the wardrobe, squinting, before turning back to Jody and letting his jaw slide from side to side.

"I'm just getting water. This whole place smells damp to me. Does that mean something?"

Jody's face twisted and she nodded quickly, raising a hand to her mouth and smothering a soft sigh as Dean moved back to the wardrobe and commenced rifling through the clothes – finding a piece that seemed to suit his needs and scrunching it in his hands. His eyes slid closed and for a moment the room pulsed with the energy of his performance.

Castiel took a step back behind Jody, fingers twitching as Dean's chest began to heave. Within a matter of moments, his breath turned from even to wheezing, and then seemed to stop, as he leaned forwards and his mouth gaped open. His hand went to his chest, rather than his throat, and he clutched there tightly, squeezing his eyes shut and making gagging motions that turned into hacking coughs.

"Dean?"

Castiel started forward but Dean held out his hand in a gesture that clearly signaled Castiel was to stop, and squeezed out. "Yeah… _ok_… stop."

Almost immediately, Dean's shoulders relaxed, and while he leaned closer to the floor to hack out a few extra coughs, his face quickly returned to a better color. He wiped at it with his hands a few times, before straightening and murmuring to himself: "Yeah, ok, no more of that. You're freaking her out."

In front of him, Jody's knees quaked even though she stood her ground. Dean caught Castiel's gaze over her shoulder, before he turned to Jody with a soft expression:

"You know what that was, don't you?"

She nodded again and bit into her fist, while her shoulders quaked at the beginning of silent sobs. Dean bit his lip and closed his eyes again, breathing evenly and nodding again. "Ok. Ok." He opened his eyes again and moved to the bed at the centre of the room, taking in its state, and turning to Jody.

"He's really sorry about the other night. He didn't want to frighten you."

Jody swallowed around a small cry and looked to the bed, before turning back to Dean. Her face twitched at the eyelids from the unrestrained emotion that seemed primed to erupt, but stared evenly enough and awaited his explanation. Dean seemed slightly at a loss, however, and he looked back to the wardrobe, closing his eyes and huffing. He waited like that for a minute, holding his palm out like he was assuring someone to stop, before his brow furrowed and he looked back to Jody.

"It's… it's a little garbled. Can- Can you tell me what happened? What he showed you?"

Jody swallowed and moved uncertainly forward to sit on the bed. Dean watched her for a moment, before following suit, and sitting in the opposite corner. His hand moved to trace along its markings lightly and Jody's eyes caught on the movement – mouth dropping open.

"It was… I woke up around midnight and my bed was just… it was drenched. Freezing cold and soaking wet."

She shivered slightly as she ran her hands along the now dry and fluffy duvet, pinching a piece of the cotton covering between her fingers. "And in the wardrobe, all his clothes were dripping. But the floor was still dry."

She looked to the vanity and pointed at the picture Dean had been holding. He retrieved it for her without question and let her cradle it in her hands, running her fingers along the edge of the silhouette she created with the man it was obvious now, in the circumstance, had been her husband.

"This picture…" she brought her hand to her mouth again, "it was as though someone had spilled water on it. It was all wavy and distorted. But just his face. Not mine."

She looked up to Dean with a trembling lip.

"Is he angry at me? I-"

Dean shook his head quickly and took the picture from her, replacing it with the hold of both of his hands and running his fingers across the same part. "No, I don't think so… no… not much. I mean, there's a part that feels like anger, but… no, it's more like frustration."

Jody bit her lip and squeezed her hand tighter around the duvet. Castiel, for his own part, moved slowly backwards until he was positioned against the wall of the room as a mere observer.

"It's been four years. I missed him so much. I haven't been able to move any of it. Any of his things. His tackle box is still in the boot of his car, even. I left it parked in the garage."

She sniffed lightly, and raised a hand to rub at her cheek and remove a tear that threatened to pour there, before looking back at Dean."Just recently… I met someone. Well, not met… he used to know Tom. A cop as well. He was at the funeral and spoke for him, and-"

She cut herself off with a heavy sob. Dean, surprisingly without reservations, opened his arm and made a space for her. Even more surprising, she quickly went to it, dropping her head to his shoulder. There was such a gentleness in the way Dean closed his arm around her that she scarcely seemed alarmed at its intimacy. With his hold firm, Dean closed his eyes again and sighed.

"You've moved on," he murmured quietly, running a thumb across the knob of her shoulder. She shook her head into his shoulder and gave a small sob.

"I… I still miss Tom every day. But… Roger… he's a good man. He's taken care of me since. Always looked out for me. And I thought… neither of us would want to take away from Tom's memory…"

Dean nodded, eyes still closed, and his mouth quirked. "He says you haven't let him here."

"What?"

"Roger." Dean answered simply, lips fighting against a wider grin.

Jody looked up at him, and despite the inappropriateness of Dean's smile in the circumstance, something about it attracted her attention. When she spoke, it was almost as if she were speaking to Dean as a vehicle.

"No. No, I mean… I can't bring myself to… even open his drawers."

Dean breathed out a quickly laugh and opened his eyes, before looking back to Castiel once and grinning.

"Jody… it's not like that at all. He's not angry at you."

Jody raised her gaze and watched Dean carefully, and he smiled kindly and softly, eyes surveying her face with such uncareful intimacy that they might have known each other for years. The sight seemed to stir something in Jody, and she recoiled slightly from his hold, if only for the perspective to survey his face more carefully.

Something drew Dean's eyes to the doorway and he looked there for a moment, before murmuring: "come closer."

Jody turned with Castiel to look at the space but saw only empty air, though Dean grinned and beckoned again: "I won't bite. Come on." He then sat in silence for half a minute, nodding and breathing slowly, staring at the spot. As he did so, his arm moved off Jody's shoulder and he snickered once.

"Things… kinda got lost in translation, didn't they?"

Jody searched his face for more clarification, but Dean only remained fixed on the empty point in space. "The clothes and the photo… he thinks you ought to get rid of them. Or put them away. You should clean up the space."

He pursed his lips for a moment and nodded: "Roger's a good man. He likes him. He likes that he'll take care of you. Um…" His mouth ticked slightly and his eyes flickered towards the doorway: "Shit, no, I can't say _that_!"

"What?"

Dean's eyes flickered back to Jody and his mouth fell open slightly in a dumbstruck expression.

"Your guy kinda has a … rough sense of humor."

Even as the tears commenced a fresh flow down her face, Jody couldn't hide a chuckle that erupted from her throat, and the sight of it had Dean's mouth curling into a soft smile.

"Yeah. Yeah… he's a good man."

He shut his eyes again for a moment and nodded softly, commencing a bumbling narrative even as he kept them closed.

"There's a few things he wants you to keep. There's a… a rugby team? What the hell is… oh, ok. The shirt – you have to keep that. And… the photos…like you'd throw those out, he says… the ring… Roger's gonna give you some nice things, he wants you to have the space for them."

He opened his eyes, and looked at Jody with a kind of fondness that didn't befit their brief acquaintance.

"That's it… he's… he's saying he's going to go now… I'm just getting a lot of love… and he's saying chin up superstar... yes…yeah… that's it… he's gonna go now."

Dean looked up towards the doorway and Jody's eyes tracked the movement. There was still nothing there, but upon the bed, a tiny shiver wracked Jody's body, and Dean moved his eyes away in embarrassment.

"Is… is he still here?"

Dean looked behind Jody to another point on the bed and nodded slowly. "He's just… he's happy. He's really happy for you."

Jody's eyes brimmed over at that, and she moved her arms to hug around herself, staring out at the empty space around her and sobbing lightly. Her face pinched at the centre as her body twisted around the last expression of grief, and she nodded softly yet urgently to the empty room.

Dean nodded at the space, before turning to Jody quickly, eyes a little watery.

"He can hear you, if there's anything you want to say. You don't have to say it out loud if you don't want to. He'll hear."

Jody's lip trembled as she looked back at Dean and nodded, before hanging her head for a moment and squeezing her eyes shut. When she looked back up, her breathing had slowed, and Dean nodded softly.

"He heard. He'll be at peace."

Jody's tears verbalized in a soft cry that had her leaning forward and burying her face against her knees. Dean ran a soft hand across her back until the tears subsided, and Castiel hovered awkwardly at the door. When he made to leave it, Dean shook his head, and gave Jody's shoulder a squeeze, bringing her back upwards and meeting her eyes.

"It'll be ok. You've waited enough time, and he understands…."

She bit her lip and nodded. "It feels like he only just left."

"He doesn't want you to be alone."

Dean's eyes moved to Castiel's and he held them for a moment, before looking away.

"Can you do that for him? Can you move on… with this Roger guy?"

She smiled lightly through her tears and nodded carefully, before reaching for Dean's hands and squeezing them tightly within hers.

"Thank you, Dean. Thank you so much."

Dean accepted the praise modestly, and looked away embarrassed when Jody's eyes shone with bone deep gratitude. He stayed beside her though, no longer touching her, and suddenly far more closed off in his body language – moving his legs together tighter and keeping his hands wedged between his legs. Jody sobbed for a little while, but quickly recovered herself, smiling through tears and suddenly brighter.

When the episode had reduced to sniffling, she stood officiously and led them back to the kitchen. Their drinks were cold, but she kindly offered fresh ones, which Dean declined politely.

"Cas here is a lecturer. He's got gradin' to do. I'd love to stay Jody, but…"

"No. No. It's quite alright."

Her embarrassed posture betrayed it wasn't quite, but Dean stepped forward quickly and laid a comforting hand on her arm.

"You have a call to make anyway. Don't make Roger wait too long now."

He gave her a quick wink and a click of his tongue. Castiel shot a quick look at him, immediately worried he had pushed the acquaintance too far, but Jody only chortled through another threatening eruption of emotion, and lead them to the door.

At the threshold, she held Dean back and fumbled in her purse for some notes. Dean immediately went to protest, but she shoved them into his hand brashly, and stepped out of his reach when he tried to push them back.

"Bobby told me you'd be like that about the money, but…" she wiped at her nose with the back of her sleeve. "I won't take no for an answer. It's not a crime to accept thanks every once in a while."

Dean still kept his hand outstretched with the notes, but she ignored him, until eventually Castiel cleared his throat and (with a resentful glance at them both) Dean pocketed the money. Jody's eyes flickered to Castiel's and met them, slightly wary, but still kind.

"You keep an eye on this one. He's a good boy. And he trusts you."

Dean spluttered indignantly as Jody stepped backwards, even through her tearful expression throwing a wink at Dean, before she closed the door between them. Castiel looked away as Dean turned to him, utterly embarrassed, and placed his hands in his pockets. Without an answer for the circumstance, Dean had little choice but to murmur something unintelligible, before he whirled and stalked back to his car, fumbling as he arrived there with his keys and seemingly unable to select the appropriate tool.

"Dean?"

Dean didn't have the audacity to look back to Castiel as he came up behind him and looked at his flushed neck. "Yeah?" His voice was high, and a little rough, clearly rattled by whatever he had inferred from Jody's statement, though the words themselves were scarcely meaningful. Castiel's gaze dropped to his hands, where they worried at his keys, and when he looked back up to squint at Dean, the words he offered were not those had intended.

"Would you like me to drive? You have had a tiring afternoon."

"What?" Dean paused mid-rifle through is keys, and looked to Castiel, cheeks coloring slightly with embarrassment. "I…uh… What I meant to say was, I don't usually let anyone drive my baby, Cas."

Castiel stepped back immediately, holding up his hands in surrender. "My mistake."

He pocketed his hands and made to move around to the other side of the Impala. As he reached the passenger door, however, he found Dean staring and him. With a swallow, he bashfully held out the keys across the car's roof. "I am actually beat though, if…"

Castiel contemplated the keys for a moment before he took them from Dean's outstretched hand, and moved to swap places with him around the front of the car. They slid onto the front seat simultaneously, and Dean kept his gaze down and focused as Castiel carefully placed the key into the ignition and triggered the engine to life beneath them.

He inched out carefully from the curb, wary of the car's strength compared to his own and Dean's stiff posture beside him as he followed every movement of Castiel's hands on the Impala's gear shift and wheel with the attention of a driving instructor taking a fifteen year old for their first lesson. Around ten minutes in though, he seemed sufficiently comfortable to take his eyes off Castiel, and instead turn them to the road, which he watched with some ferocity for warning of oncoming hazards.

After he had borne the silence long enough, Castiel asked: "Is that kind of encounter perhaps more typical of what you would usually do?"

Dean looked over to him quickly, before wringing his hands at his chest.

"Uh, yeah, I guess. When I go to conventions and shows and stuff, it's usually just… comfort."

Castiel nodded and stared straight ahead at the road.

"I thought you did well, speaking with Jody. Regardless of what I believe you saw, I think she benefitted from the encounter."

Dean was silent beside Castiel, but he felt Dean's eyes on him as he drove down the straight road, staring out at the horizon. Eventually, Dean conceded with a small, pleased-sounding murmur: "Thanks, Cas."

Castiel's mouth pulled into a line, and he kept his eyes fixed forward, even as he felt Dean's roaming his face for the duration of the journey. When they arrived at Dean's home, he stopped the car and a silence fell in the absence of the heavy engine.

"D'you… want to arrange the next session now, or… wait until I get a call?"

Dean seemed almost shy as he looked at Castiel across the seat, and looked away immediately when Castiel turned his gaze upon him.

"You're happy to continue?"

Dean's eyes flickered once and he looked at Castiel curiously. "Yeah, I mean… nothing went wrong today did it?"

Castiel watched Dean for a moment before he turned away, and beside him he heard Dean exhale.

"I think it best if we carry it out here -"

"Any night of the week, Cas. After work. You can pop by."

Dean's mouth fell open as Castiel turned to him. "I mean… 'cause I'll just be at home."

Castiel licked his lips and nodded once, before opening the door to his side and sliding out, dragging his satchel with him. Dean watched him go before moving to the other side and stepping out, standing and leaning across the Impala as he watched Castiel lock its doors.

"So… just text me?"

"I will, Dean."

Castiel held out the keys across the roof of the car, and Dean took them – quickly pocketing them with a sudden protectiveness that had not quite befitted the fact that Castiel had spent the last hour with them in his possession.

With a small wave, Castiel moved towards his own car and unlocked it. Dean waited beside his own, watching carefully as Castiel started the engine and painstakingly pulled on his seatbelt – checking twice that it was secure, before turning and waving once more at Dean.

On the ride back to the University, and as he typed up his case notes for the afternoon on his laptop, a small smile played around his lips. When Meg stopped by to check on his progress in reading her chapter, she crossed her arms and jutted a hip, asking coyly: "What's got you so happy then?"

She dragged him to a nearby bar for a glass of wine and an update, during which time he explained with modest contentment: "I think Dean has had his first breakthrough."

Meg punched him on the shoulder in congratulations, before superstitiously letting the subject drop. She knew as well as he did that it could collapse at any time. Dean's trust in him was faint and uncertain. But Castiel was sure, whatever afflicted him, was yet movable.

As they wandered back to the University, she surveyed his face in the early evening with a pleased expression.

"What?"

She shrugged quickly and zipped up her jacket, turning her gaze to the passing cars and veering closer to him on the sidewalk.

"It's good to see you smiling, Clarence. That's all."


	8. That foolishly felt

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

Castiel had not practiced for some time, but there was an exhilaration in a breakthrough with a patient that his body eagerly remembered and returned to in the days following his last encounter with Dean. As a rule, he knew it was best not to get ahead of himself. Initial progress could be (and, in his experience, often was) undermined by the smallest error. And Dean, as a patient that had proved troublesome than others, was likely more inclined to reversion.

Still, in spite of himself, Castiel was cheerful at the progress. That was buoyed by the fact that it was at Dean's instigation, rather than Castiel's, that the next session occurred. Even better, that he did so by phone call.

"Cas?"

"Hello, Dean."

"I'm not… interrupting a class or anything, am I?"

Castiel reclined back at his desk, lowering the screen of his laptop to avoid distraction and shook his head pointlessly into the phone.

"No. Not at all. I'm marking."

There was a shuffle on the end of the line, before Dean mumbled: "Oh good."

Castiel cleared his throat when awaited Dean's forthcoming explanation, and when none arrived, he pursued it: "Is there a reason you're calling, Dean?"

Dean paused for a moment, seemingly requiring the opportunity to exhale, before he popped his lips and answered: "Yeah. Yeah, there is."

He seemed to stumble around the explanation, however, and Castiel waited several inhales and exhales before he continued.

"You know how I said I'd met the group… of survivors?"

"Yes."

"They… it turns out they knew about what I could do. They kinda sought me out. They seem to think that…."

Castiel leaned forward in his chair slightly, and inclined his head as though more focused listening into the phone would elucidate Dean's reaction. His primary concern was, immediately, that Dean might feel betrayed by such an instrumental interest. While Castiel had not discouraged the group, out of a hope that their meetings might render Dean more comfortable with his past trauma, he was at Dean's words wary that his aptitude with the "spirits" would become the meaningful realm of dialogue between them. That would turn attention away from proper recovery.

Castiel held his breath as Dean paused for a moment, before continuing.

"Two nights from now, we're doing a séance. They think it will resolve some things."

Dean's admission, somewhat bashful, had Castiel jolting forward in his seat, before he caught himself and moved the microphone away from his mouth momentarily so that Dean could not hear his huff.

"Cas?"

Castiel swallowed, and willed himself to speak calmly when he responded. "I'm here."

"Oh."

Dean held his breath on the other end of the line. In response, Castiel swallowed, and offered tentatively: "Do you think a séance is a good idea? Will reliving the experience really resolve things for you?"

Dean paused, before he gave a sudden snort on the other end of the line.

"You know, Cas, I think you're the first psychologist who _hasn't _wanted me to relive it."

Castiel fruitlessly shook his head out of habit, even though it was invisible to Dean

"I do want you to, eventually, if you feel capable. But in a safer space, where I am guiding you and you are able to leave the situation at any time."

Dean paused again, before he answered. His voice was slightly higher pitched.

"They're good people, they'll keep an eye out for me."

"_Dean_-"

Castiel paused as the air seemed to bristle on the end of the line, and his breathing somehow turned cold.

"What are you worried about?"

Castiel raised the screen of his laptop and stared at the baleful tick of the line that marked his place on the white page. He raised a few fingers to his lips and breathed against them in aggravation, thrumming them against the skin.

"I'm worried this is premature."

Dean went silent again on the other side before he mumbled: "You could come, Cas. You could keep an eye on things too. If you think it's not right, I'll trust your judgment. I said I trusted you."

Castiel swallowed, and offered slowly.

"My professional judgment is that you shouldn't go at all."

Dean's frown was palpable, even across the distance.

"Have you ever even been to a séance? It's nothing new. Just bigger. More people to talk to. Nothing out of the ordinary from what I did with Jody and you were ok with that."

"You were tired after what you did with Jody."

"I'll rest up."

"Dean-"

He heard Dean shift on the end of the line and huff into the receiver.

"If you've never done one before, how can you possibly-"

"Have you?"

Castiel knew he'd struck gold when Dean refused to answer straight away, and the lie in his eventual response was obvious, when it rolled off his tongue too easily after too long a pause. "Of course I have."

"I believe you are lying to me, Dean."

"So what? I don't need your permission."

Castiel bit his lip and clenched his fist in front of him. "But you sought it."

The guilt trip had Dean pause momentarily, and when he did so, he did so with the tone of a child trying to reciprocate the same. "I was hoping you'd come. I do want you there just to… watch things. Keep an eye out."

"Your requirement for my presence makes me distrust your confidence in the process."

Dean sighed again and went silent. Castiel waited it out, pressing his lips together and spreading the drying moisture across them.

"…I think it'll help. And I really want you to be there. But if you won't…"

He trailed off and the conversation fell silent at the impasse. Eventually, Dean sighed on the other end, and murmured: "Look, I'm gonna go, but I'll-"

Castiel rapped his knuckles against his desk in aggravation, before dropping his voice and conceding with a huff, which he was sure Dean hadn't missed.

"Fine. Give me the address and the date."

"Really?"

Dean brightened immediately, and even in the limited mechanism of conversation, his gratitude seeped through. He rattled off the address and date like he had been waiting for the duration of the conversation to reveal it, which Castiel supposed he had, given his stubborn refusal to shift from his attention to attend the event. Castiel grudgingly wrote the date in his diary, and Dean waited for his sigh of assent on the other line.

When it was given, his voice cheered and he promised: "I'll drive us. I'll even let you drive Baby again, as thanks."

"That won't be necessary."

"But I appreciate it, Cas."

A beat passed between them, and Castiel's adjusting of his phone resulted in the press of a key which passed a tone into the phone.

"Right, well, I'll see you then."

"I'd rather see you before, if possible. Tomorrow."

"So you can try to talk me out of it?"

Castiel drummed his fingers against his desk. "I won't lie. But I want to talk with you about Jody too."

Dean contemplated the offer momentarily, and Castiel heard him shifting around on the other end of the line – somewhere in the movement was the screech of his fridge opening and closing and then the sound of running water.

"Ok. You won't change my mind. But I'll talk."

"Tomorrow evening?"

"Sure. I'll see you then. Bye, Cas."

"Goodbye, Dean."

There was a long pause, and then Castiel hung up. He pressed his palms flat together, leaning forward on his elbows to stare across his desk at his screen. The incessant tick of his marker eventually grew too much, and he shut the laptop in aggravation. He was forced to open it again only minutes later to conduct a google search for séance literature, and to make a few hasty notes of what he might expect at such an event. By the time he was done, an hour later, he had six pages of scrawled notes to rely on, in his attempt to dissuade Dean. He left his office with aching eyes, and the weight of knowing the effort would likely go unnoticed.

Still, he had little else to do that evening, and he grew increasingly irritated by the emptiness of his home.

…

Castiel did try to persuade Dean against the séance, but to no avail. If he had fully committed to it, there was a high likelihood he might have succeeded. As it were, however, with Dean's tentative trust building the way it was, Castiel made the calculus. His concern with the séance was speculative. His concern with backtracking in his relationship with Dean was tangible. The latter had to outweigh the former.

Dean did concede to another session, however, in the lead up to the séance, and participated willingly enough despite their brief earlier disagreement.

"I noticed that you were fairly positive about your encounter with Jody."

Dean stared at Castiel like it was something obvious, fingers fiddling absently with the armrests of the chair he found himself in. It was the first time Castiel had seen him in that particular spot without a drink in his hand, and he found he rather liked the image of Dean – relaxed, legs spread and eyes open and alert. Receptive.

"Well, yeah. You said it went well didn't you?"

"I don't think my praise was the sole reason."

Dean shuffled and clicked his heels together where they rested at the base of the chair. His gaze only flickered to Castiel's notebook once before he answered.

"Well, no. I mean, she was a nice lady. And it helped her, for me to talk to her husband. That's good."

Castiel nodded and made an idle note on his pad. It was nothing of consequence, but enough to remind Dean of the inquiry. He was trusting the study, and Castiel wanted him to feel that he was in capable hands.

"Is that unusual, for you to feel so well?"

Dean paused and thought about that, chewing his cheek.

"Dean?"

"Huh?"

His gaze flickered up to Castiel at once and his jaw went slack.

"I'm surprised that that's something you have to consider?"

Dean blinked twice before arching an eyebrow and nestling back in his chair. He turned his gaze to his fingers upon the armchair and stared toying with a loose threat there.

"Really? After Jo? And Anna?"

Castiel shrugged lightly – although the mention of Anna made his legs suddenly tingle with the same kind of nervousness that struck him when standing on high bridges – and scrawled at his notepad again, this time an actual observation – _emotional swings?_

He kept Dean's focus, however, by answering at the same time: "I assumed she might have been the exception to the rule. Forgive me, but I would have thought that in most circumstances you would be dealing with lost love ones of that description. No vengeance; just farewell."

Dean sighed and rubbed at his temple, lips pursed. "I guess. Yeah, that's a lot of them."'

"But you've told me previously you wish the spirits would leave you alone."

"Yeah."

"You seemed to draw genuine satisfaction from your encounter with Jody. I'm not sure how the two attitudes correlate."

Dean's forehead pinched as he looked at Castiel and then his expression dropped slightly. He curled a little into the couch then, slinging one leg behind the other and bringing his free hand across him to fiddle with the same thread. The effect was instantaneous – his body became immediately closed off from Castiel and his presence hostile.

"Jody… she was a good case. I mean, sometimes that happens. She called _me_. I didn't have to go knock on her door like some kind of madman."

"I see."

Dean cocked an eyebrow and frowned.

"No, I don't think you do. See, usually, I find out someone is dead because they turn up in my room crying or screaming or shaking or whatever the fuck they want to do. And they're nearly always angry. And when I ask them to go away they _make _me feel it."

Castiel paused for a moment, and raised his pen to his notepad as though to write something, but became stifled at the final moment. He settled for merely dropping the tip of his pen back to the paper and looking at Dean. Dean took that as further invitation and, despite his annoyance, was cooperative in offering further explanation.

"Tom was really nice. They're not usually like that. He really just wanted her to be happy. And he was really grateful."

Dean sniffed and wiped at his nose with irritation. "When I was talking to him, I could just _feel _how much he loved her. He was frustrated too, but… he was there for the right reasons. And when I got her to say she would move on. Man, he felt _so good_. So happy. So I was happy."

He shrugged and raised a nail to his teeth to worry at it.

"That's… the exception. Most spirits – not that they're bad people – but they can't control themselves. All emotion. I mean, you heard what Jody said. When Tom was tryin' to get through to her… s'like something out of a horror flick. And he was _trying_ to be nice."

"You think other spirits are more malicious."

"I think I'm their only hope and they're desperate and single-minded, and they'll hurt me if they have to. I mean… Jo…" He shook his head , and shut his eyes. "She was a good person. I felt that. But she stood in my room every night shaking and crying and I… I saw everything that happened to her, over and over. You saw with Tom… he showed me him drowning."

"When you were choking."

"Yeah." Dean's eyes flashed up to meet Castiel's. "He showed me the surface of the water, and how it felt to see it leaving. He was just trying to tell me how he died, but… it's pretty hard to separate that part from the fact that he was fucking terrified out of his mind while it was happening."

Dean swallowed roughly and with a grimace as though there were a poor taste there.

"Do you often internalize the spirits' feelings?"

Dean shifted in his seat and flushed – odd, considering the circumstances – and let his gaze drop to his lap.

"Pretty much always, yeah. Fear, hate, revenge. It has to be something pretty strong to keep them from wanting to pass on."

His gaze flickered to Castiel and then past him, before he murmured. "Sometimes it's love. That's the worst. Not just because they're hurting, but… it's too intimate, you know? When I barely know someone and they're showing me…" he trailed of, shoving his hands into his pockets and letting his ass slide down the surface of the chair so that he was slouched at half his height.

"Have you met other mediums that have spoken of this difficulty?"

"Yes."

"Did they find ways to alleviate it?"

Dean shook his head: "No way I wanna go."

Castiel paused carefully and surveys Dean's stature – his defeated stance and his nervous, glassy looking eyes, before making the implication and addressing it with a soft voice.

"You mean suicide?"

Dean chuckled once and looked back up to Castiel, almost flirtatious in the sudden bravado that he erected to cover the seriousness of the topic.

"How do you think I ended up in the nuthouse?"

Castiel leaned backward and watched Dean, surveying each movement, and awaiting further explanation that was not forthcoming. Dean only stared at the floor, and Castiel quickly cleared this throat.

"You say you ask them to go away?"

"All the time. It doesn't actually help, obviously."

"Why do you think that is?"

Dean moved back in his chair, placing and elbow on the armrest and angling his palm against it so he could prop up the weight of his head.

"They need help. I'm the only one that can help them."

"Why don't you stop?"

"They just cry louder."

Dean raised a hand and indicated to the wall behind Castiel. Castiel followed the line of his indication, and turned to look at it blankly.

"What is it?"

Dean surveyed him for a moment, before licking his lips and dropping his hand.

"There's this baby there. Cries all night. Every night. I thought it was the neighbors'. But they're like… eighty. I tried to help it, but… no dice. So it just wails, wanting help, and not knowing how to get it. There a'int an off switch."

Castiel let Dean go silent and listened to the ring in the air. He heard nothing, of course, and it appeared Dean didn't either, for he only brought an ankle up to rest on one of his knees and held onto the base of his jeans.

"Is that our twenty questions for the day?"

His tone was light, and the jibe was playful enough that Castiel didn't register it as a serious issue. Rather he looked down at his notepad, surveying his summary of the session, then shut it. "For now, yes. You've done well."

Dean grinned, elated all of a sudden, and leaned back in his chair. "Gold star for my wall chart then?" Castiel only squinted at him, and eventually Dean cleared his throat. "Right, well… no more lectures on the séance?"

"I have plenty, but I think you will go regardless."

"Got it in one."

Dean eased out of his chair, stretching his arms upwards. His T-shirt rode up with the gesture, and Castiel looked away hurriedly, taking the opportunity to slide his notebook back into his satchel and stand as well.

"Well, given that we will be seeing each other tomorrow evening, I won't intrude further on your time. I'll meet you here?"

"Yep. 8's fine."

"I'm assuming I should have dinner before."

"I reckon you won't fancy my cooking, Cas."

Castiel only nodded in reply and Dean lead him with surprising acquiescence towards the door. At the threshold, while Dean was navigating his lock system, Castiel paused and murmured: "I mean it, you did well."

Dean stopped momentarily in his movements, looking back to Castiel and immediately dropping his gaze.

"Thanks, Cas."

He breathed out in a nervous little huff, before turning to finish the locks. As he opened the door, there was an awkward pause – perhaps where a handshake or a hug might usually go. Dean whistled, eyes shifting, and gestured towards the door, grinning at Castiel on the way out.

"I, uh, I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yes."

"…. Night."

"Good night, Dean."

Dean's phone rang and he gestured apologetically before bolting, almost slamming the door behind him. Castiel blinked once, watching Dean's silhouette disappear behind the glass, and then the sound of his rumbling: "Hello?"

It was a dark night, but Castiel was elated as he made his way to his car. It was cold, but he didn't turn on the heater.

Dean was doing well. He was responsive, and he trusted Castiel.

Castiel had always been a competent academic – perhaps more than competent, if he took Meg's praise seriously – but he felt a serious pleasure spread low across his belly at the thought of helping Dean. Purpose, that was it. Positive contribution, filling a void of emptiness that hadn't been attended to in some time.

Legacy.

…

_An extract from the unpublished paper of Professor Castiel Novak _(MA Berkeley, PhD Harvard) _regarding his case study of the medium, E _

_Public performance is both the riskiest and most gratifying aspect of the mystical maneuver, in which the subject of such visions has both the potential to compromise or compound the attention directed to them and their ability._

_For E, performance is typically a personal endeavor. This likely rectifies the worry of exposal, for one short account of inaccuracy cannot sway the multitude of others given in favor. That being said, the public circumstance has the advantage of a heightened emotional experience that lends the audience to a more open state of mind regarding the performance. Passivitiy is all that is required of an audience to be swayed – where the psychological space exists for infiltration, the master can take advantage of it._

_It is no coincidence that the most typical public performance – that of the séance – historically requires atmospheric composition. The presence of multiple aggrieved parties, with emotions already in an elevated state, combined with a physical circumstance which enacts a dramatic ploy upon the brain – candlelight, darkness, whispers and chanted prayer – is a ready guarantee to foster psychological buy-in. A shadow in the corner and an unexplained creak are such typical tropes of the industry, they might be thought cliché. But there is a generality to them that leaves space for the imagination, and with enough mentalist influence cleverly employed by the medium in question, the mind is susceptible to be directed towards a more compromising conclusion._

_E himself is acutely aware of his subjects' emotional states, as evidenced by his encounters with clientele. Having felt an outcast himself, it easy for him to assimilate to the personal requirements of a party likely questioning their own sanity for the endeavor of requesting his services. His opportunity in the séance context is even more ready for exploitation, given his actual participation in the event giving rise to the engagement. Already, he knows how to speak to his audience to garner the most astute enfranchisement. _

…

When Castiel arrived at Dean's home, still garbed in his typical teaching attire for the day, he was surprised to find Dean in a veritable state of formality. His plaid shirts and leather jacket were replaced with a simple royal blue shirt, and a thin navy tie, tied roughly and hanging loosely at his neck – clearly a response to its owner's grievances with it. Even his hair had been managed – though with little expertise. A wet comb and some three minutes' attention in a mirror – Castiel only recognized it because it was part of his own personal maintenance routine inflicted to placate the pleas of the University Staffing Committee.

As Dean stood back and allowed Castiel entrance into the home, Castiel caught a whiff too of a cheap aftershave – the kind assembled to infringe upon the rights of intellectual property of more precocious brands. The scent was thinner and vaguer, but still a noticeable contrast to the otherwise stark scents of soap and starch that usually haunted Dean's vicinity.

There was a buzz beneath Castiel's skin as he turned and shut the door behind him.

"I'll just get my keys."

Castiel was left stranded in the hall, while Dean moved upstairs. His footsteps were heavy on the floor on the second level, and Castiel idly turned to stare up at the ceiling, tracking the sound of Dean's progress throughout the room. When Dean was done, he hurried back down the stairs – tie fixed – and grinned.

"Ready?"

"Yes."

The drive was short, and despite his palpable excitement, Dean's hands thrummed nervously on the steering wheel of the car – tapping out beats at an impressively fast pace as he juddered and stuttered his way through the few sentences he attempted to declare, before they fell into typical silence.

The house Dean brought them to – following Castiel's directions from a rough, damp and stained map retrieved from under his seat – was a dingy creation. In its upper levels, the windows had been smashed open and were protected from the worst of the elements by taped tarpaulins, which swelled and recoiled with bursts of wind too soft to be felt on the ground level. It was dark already, and the house was almost black in the moonlight. Dean had to use the backlight of his phone screen when he located the stairway to the entrance to mark out the positioning of the steps. Despite his best efforts, Castiel still tripped upon first contact, and Dean took his arm and lead him the rest of the way without a second thought.

The door was open, and Dean entered somewhat uncertainly, looking around the hallway and murmuring: "Hello?"

"Dean..."

Dean's eyes moved to Castiel's quickly and he shrugged.

"She said downstairs. They probably just can't hear us."

Despite Castiel's misgivings and general reluctance to move about the house, Dean was happy to investigate a few rooms until he eventually found a stairwell to the lower level. With a grin, he looked to Castiel and winked: "Coming, Cas?"

He moved without waiting for an answer, and Castiel followed, adjusting his coat around him in response to the dank temperateness of the room. Dean was already out of sight when he made his way down, but he was reassured by the sound of murmured voices from below.

Upon entering the room, he saw Dean, almost circled with an abstract looking collection of persons. An older woman, dressed in a suit with freshly pressed curls and full make up, a dour looking woman swathed in a loose fitting floral skirt and beige jacket (who stared and glowered at him at his entrance), a man with a face mostly obscured by a widely rimmed black fedora, a balding man in a sweatshirt and a younger couple, holding hands and looking at one another nervously.

"Hey Cas."

Dean greeted him as though they had not been together only a minute ago, and gestured to the room. "These are… some of the other survivors."

The group looked at him, but aside from the younger couple, who stepped forward to introduce themselves as Andy and Ava. The rest stayed silent, and the older woman took Dean by the arm and lead him to the mantelpiece of the room, throwing Castiel a look that made clear the invitation was not extended to him.

Upon it, amidst tealight candles and a burning stick of incense were an assortment of items. A doll, a toy car, a pair of spectacles, several photographs, and various treasure boxes whose contents remained obscure.

"Memories," the woman said to Dean, nodding to the items and watching as he reached out and ran his hands across them, fingers following the intricate curves of each item and feeling them out as though he were blind and trying to determine their content. "We thought they might help."

"They will," Dean answered softly, looking back to Castiel once and biting his lip, before looking back to the woman with a bashful expression.

"It's… it's freezing in here. Do we have anything we can do to warm it up?"

She nodded and arched an eyebrow at the beige-coated woman, who nodded and departed the room quickly, without so much as a word, and stumbled up the stairs awkwardly.

"We're so glad you're here, Dean."

The group nodded silently, and watched Dean as he turned to face them. The silence grew almost violent as they awaited return, and Andy and Ava seemed determined not to look at Dean. Dean shuffled for a few steps, before his face suddenly drained of color, and he bolted, rushing for one of the still intact windows and heaving it open, emptying the contents of his stomach into a series of dead rose bushes below. It fell with a splatter, painfully audible in the silence. The group only watched, but Castiel hurried forward and dropped a hand to Dean's back.

"Dean?"

Dean coughed once in response, and a second wave of nausea brought up the remainder of whatever he had managed for dinner. There was very little, but Dean seemed relieved as he pulled backwards, feeling at his mouth for signs of the activity.

He was slow to meet Castiel's eyes as Castiel kept hold on his back. Castiel kept his voice low (pointless in the heavy silence of the room) for a semblance of their privacy.

"Dean, I'm not sure you're prepared to-"

"I'm fine, Cas."

Before Castiel could offer more in the way of dissuasion, Dean turned and looked back at the group.

"I just need, uh, some time to… get ready."

"Of course," the manicured woman quickly added, tone pleasant, though he barbed gaze at Castiel suggested otherwise. "Just let us know when you are ready to proceed."

The dour woman returned down the stairs with a small space heater and traipsed heavily across the room to plug it in to a (surprisingly still operational) power socket. The prongs inside the thing flared red as she turned it on, and the fan commenced an almost suffocating whir as it pushed the warm air out into the room. Dean gave Castiel a small smile and moved towards the heater to crouch before it, rubbing his hands together and closing his eyes. The majority of the group peeled off to whisper to each other almost indiscernibly, but the older woman eyeballed Castiel and made her way to him cautiously.

"What did you say your relation to Dean was?"

Dean was seemingly unaware of the exchange, for when Castiel's eyes flickered to him, he remained fixed and trance-like before the heater, aside from a slow rock back and forth across his heels. Without approval, Castiel returned to look at the woman and gave the honest answer. "I am a Professor of Psychology. I am studying Dean."

Her eyebrows raised almost imperceptibly.

"Are you a believer then?"

Castiel shook his head slowly. "No, I am not."

She pursed her lips and looked to Dean, speaking clearly: "I believe it is bad practice to have a skeptic in the midst."

"Dean requested I attend."

The woman pursed her lips and crossed her arms, shifting on her feet as she worked around a response.

Dean interjected at that point though, looking back, face far more solemn as he met her eyes. "Cas stays. I want him here."

The reply clearly displeased the woman, but she acquiesced to Dean's wishes, stepping backwards and moving towards to the rest of the group, who eyeballed Dean with increasing ferocity.

The circumstance was awkward, for none made to speak to Castiel. The young couple hung off to the side, looking increasingly uncomfortable, until eventually, after a whispered exchange, the younger man stepped forward and announced shakily.

"Cecilia? We're… not going to stay."

Ava squeezed his hand tightly and nodded as the group turned their gaze to them. The older woman's face dropped in a ferocious kind of disappointment, and she stuttered: "But… we've come so far."

Andy refused to meet her gaze, and leaned closer to his partner. "It's just… I think it's best we… it's time to move on. We both lost people. But we've found each other. And that's what we have to focus on now."

Beside him, Ava squeezed his hand, and she stole a quick glance at Castiel – her expression somehow guilty.

"I-I can't keep doing this."

"Ava!"

She shook her head slowly, and started to move back towards the stairs, pulling at Andy. "I'm sorry, but… it's for the best."

With a quick look to Dean, and a longer one at Castiel, they both took their leave, moving hurriedly up the stairs and not casting a look back to the group. Dean was oblivious to the entire exchange, eyes closed and breathing even as he rocked before the heater. The older woman's mouth opened and closed as she stared up the stairway behind them, until eventually the dour woman stepped forward and laid a hand on her shoulder.

"We can't make them."

"Of course. Of course."

She raised a quick hand to her mouth and held it there, hiding a small exhale, before looking back towards the group.

"Is anyone else not prepared to continue?"

The group shook their heads and clustered together, staring at Castiel resolutely, as though expecting him t lodge a further objection. He only pursed his lips in response, but met them with a clear gaze that spoke clearly to the fact he would not leave Dean without supervision. At that moment, Dean stirred and looked back to the group, eyes wide and a shiver racking up his spine.

"Who touched my arm?"

Across the room, the group only stared and Dean's eyes quickly sought out Castiel, locating him still by the window. The sight evidently unsettled him, and he ceased his rocking immediately.

"What?"

His eyes searched the room carefully again, before he squeezed them shut. Through the gap between the lids, Castiel watched the way they rolled back into his head and his fingers turned tight around his knees.

"Dean?"

The woman stopped Castiel with a hand to his arm and gestured towards the table before them. "It's time."

The group hastily assembled, with the dour woman moving to turn off the lights. Castiel was lead to the circular table at the centre of the room, and seated beside the chair left for Dean. The dour woman escorted him over, turning off the heater behind him, and he seated himself with trembling legs, staring straight ahead.

"Dean?"

Castiel leaned closer to attract Dean's attention, but Dean only stared down at the table, and blinked slowly and drowsily a few times, before the woman, seated opposite them both, spoke softly through the shaking candlelight. Dean jolted slightly at Castiel's side, before turning quickly to look behind him, eyebrows raising as he seemed to discern nothing.

Castiel's own hand was taken by the coated man, still wearing his hat shadowing his face, and he felt Dean, on his other side, fumble with trembling fingers. While the stranger's grip was loose and polite, Dean's was tight and intent, and Castiel felt himself of seemingly another volition, run a calming thumb across the back of Dean's hand. Dean didn't look to acknowledge him, but the corner of his mouth twitched and his eyes flickered in Castiel's direction.

"Everyone close their eyes."

Castiel disobeyed without a second thought, more out of curiosity than anything else, searching the faces of the group as they all followed suit and raised their faces slightly upward. His neighbor, the man with the hat, did so with the rest, and at once the reason for his costuming became clear, as the light of the candles traversed a mixture of cruel and rough scars across the surface of his skin – pulling a wretched mouth to the side of his face in a cruel and perpetually open smile that grimaced around his exposed molars.

"Breathe in deeply and slowly. In and out."

The woman at the head of the table – Cecilia – lead the group in a meditative breathing, raising her hands slightly to indicate the inhale, and lowering them to dictate the duration of the exhale. Castiel found himself following without thought – it was simple enough to follow the rhythm of the room, and turned to look back at Dean, whose eyelids were fluttering and head was falling backwards as though he were falling asleep.

"Ectoplasm is a very volatile substance. The spirits will use it to penetrate the medium's mind and speak through him. No one must break the circle."'

The group murmured their assent and the man beside Castiel tightened his grip around his hand. Dean's was still furious in his death grip of Castiel's fingers, and while Castiel repeated his reassuring touch, there was no response from Dean as he followed the instructed breathing.

As the group slowly relaxed into the situation, the woman opposite commenced speaking in a kind of low chant, eyes still closed and mouth in a severe line.

"We invoke the protection of the light and our angels. Let no evil spirit enter here."

The group inhaled and exhaled again as she paused, and a thrum of energy seemed to pulse at Dean's core.

"We call upon those that are friendly, and wish to speak to us. You are welcome in this circle. No harm will come to you here."

The group murmured their assent silently, with slight rolls of their lips, and breathed in heavily again. Beside Castiel, Dean froze and his fingers fluttered in Castiel's.

"Open your eyes."

The group failed to respond immediately, most taking a moment to inhale or exhale twice more before their eyes slowly peeled open and they lowered their faces to nervously examine one another – somehow simultaneously flushed with excitement, but pallid with nervousness.

Cecilia, however, at the head of the table, was fastidious. With a soft murmur, she cast her gaze around the circle, before settling on Dean.

"Is there any spirit here who wishes to speak with us?"

Dean's eyes were still closed and he began to breathe even deeper and slower than the rest of the group. In his hand, Castiel felt his skin wash with coldness suddenly. Dean leaned back farther in his chair, so that his head was hanging off the back, and his adam's apple was bobbing as it faced towards the ceiling.

On his other side, the dour woman gasp, and her eyes shifted hastily from side to side. The group's focus moved away from Dean momentarily to watch her with wide eyes. With a swallow, and trembling cheeks, she whispered.

"Somebody just moved past me."

The bald man opposite her stuttered, and his shoulder raised up to his ears.

"Oh my God."

The dark man next to Castiel tightened his grip too, searching for comfortable purchase, and Castiel loosened his hand until he was settled, before responding with a firm hold.

"Spirit, will you speak to us?"

Cecilia remained calm as she held tight to the bald man's hands and looked towards Dean, whose head dropped fully back and he gave a light sigh. Slowly, and with a soft moan, his head rolled around, down along his shoulder, across his chest and then raised slowly. His eyes ached open as he did so, and he blinked blearily at the room before him, before his lip curled.

The expression was strange on his face. It assembled itself jerkily, and seemed unpracticed, shifting between features as though it could only hold itself in one place in a time. When Dean spoke, his accent was foreign – northern English, and high pitched with age and femininity. At his left hand, where Dean held him, Castiel felt the press of Dean's nails into his skin.

"What are you doing in _my _house?"

He leaned forward and stared at the group, baring his teeth, although the whisper was coolly sweet.

"Spirit, who are you?"

Cecilia sat firm and met Dean full in the eyes, as he twisted his head in distressed looking arcs, eyeballing the rest of the group.

"This is _my _house." Dean's chin pulled back so far that it was almost pressed against his neck and he took in the group with a crooked smile. It caused the skin at his neck to fold over upon itself, making his jaw all but disappear with the odd curl of his head.

"Spirit, to whom are we speaking?"

Dean merely giggled in response, eyes twisting to look at his hand entwined with Castiel's, before raising his face to meet his eyes. In the flickering candlelight, their normal brightness was lost, and replaced with a twisted kind of incense that radiated in twitching lines across Dean's face, making the edges of his mouth twist in a foul smile.

He leaned close to Castiel, who sat completely still in order not to distress Dean during the episode of hallucination. He regretted that though, when Dean leaned so far forward their noses were almost touching, and Castiel could taste his breath on his lips. It didn't smell like had imagined – it smelled like acid.

Dean grinned and his eyes widened excitedly: "Want to see a trick?"

The lights, which had been dimmed, blared on and off again, and across from them one of the windows rattled as though it had been struck. The brown coated woman gasped tearfully, and was silenced only by the severe gaze of the older woman.

"Spirit – spirit, you can you now."

Dean pouted as he pulled back from Castiel, batting his eyelids and whistling out a light melody from between his lips.

"I don't… want t-"

There was a pause before whatever had been behind his eyelids seemed to die, and his head tipped back slowly again. Dean's breathing returned to a slow drag, and echoed at the back of his throat and in his nose.

From their entwined hands, Castiel felt the muscles in Dean's arm twitch once, twice, and then still, and his grip loosened momentarily as his mouth curled into a light "o". A moment later he fell forwards again, eyes open, and glared at the group.

Where the voice had been high, his new voice was low and grating – spoken as though he were on death's door, through wheezes of lungs that might have been full of fluid. His expression changed again, so his eyes were heavy and hooded and his jaw jutted forward.

"Where is she? Where is she?"

Each word was a drawn out ache, and they set the older woman trembling across from them. Quivers wracked her entire face as she watched carefully, and Dean cast his eyes from Castiel around the group until he settled on her and wheezed out.

"There."

He blinked slowly twice and then grated out: "Ce-cil-li-a."

"Yes… Yes…"

Across from them, Cecilia's cool exterior dissipated and she leaned forward across the table – eyes wide.

Dean swallowed with painstaking effort and stared at her longer, until her tremors turned to tears that streaked across her face, sending trails of mascara down her cheeks and leaving empty spots of pure skin where the powders rushed off with the flow of water.

Dean stared some more, before finally shaking his head and looking away and back down to the table.

"I knew. Of course I did… I loved you… anyway."

Dean's head shot backwards roughly and his eyes fell shut again. With a groan he slipped sideways and Castiel moved to grab him, but his neighbor held firm to his hand. He turned backwards, but the fedoraed man only shook his head, with such quiet and assured authority that Castiel was forced to oblige. Instead he had to settle for leaning towards Dean and whispering lowly.

"Dean?"

Dean's eyes shot open quickly, and his head fell down again. When his eyes opened, his voice turned high again, but if was far softer, and breathy.

"Gilda? Gilda?"

His eyes searched the group quickly, before settling on Castiel.

"Not here… she's not here."

He turned so that he was facing the dour woman, and his eyes widened desperately, pressing forward. "Where is Dean?"

Castiel's hand tightened around Dean's and Dean's head turned in a flash towards him, eyes raking his face.

Dean's lip trembled as he watched Castiel, and his mouth puckered as though it were around differently shaped teeth. "I need to talk to him. Where _is _he?"

He stared at Castiel for a few more seconds, before his eyes dropped closed slowly and he moaned low in his throat.

"Keep a careful hold," the older woman advised tearfully from the other end of the table, even as her face continued beneath the weight of whatever experience Dean's word had triggered in her.

Castiel shifted as Dean jostled beside him, and he breathed in a hefty gasp as though he had been underwater for minutes, before staring forward immediately at Castiel's neighbor and commencing a loud shrill cry: "My jacaylka, ayaan aad soo wacdo dalkii oo hooskii oo ku tageen! I maqla oo dhan inay yaamayska tagaan! Gudcur ayaa aha qabsaday. Ayaan si fiican u ahay! Ayaan si fiican u ahay! Qayladayda maqal, iyo inay ogaadaan in aan jacaylka aad si fiican u yahay ilaa iyo inta aad halkan ii soo biiraan!"

The man next to Castiel commenced shaking as well, and he only squeezed out a nod before Dean was falling back again. He groaned deeper as his head twisted atop his neck, lolling in strange positions. After twenty or so seconds of silence, he fell towards Castiel and opened his eyes blearily. His normal tone returned, though his voice was scratchy and horase: "Cas?"

Castiel met his eyes carefully, and raked a tired and fraught looking face.

"Cas, where are we?"

"We're conducting the séance. You're in the basement of a house at-"

"Uuuuh."

Dean rolled backwards and his eyes shut again. The man next to Castiel had commenced to shake too, and as his grip loosened in his distraction, Castiel found himself tightening his own grip in response and leaning forward to Dean.

"Dean. Dean, do you need to stop?"

Dean groaned again and fell further backwards.

"N-no. No, you can't. I promised."

He shook his head slowly, as though he were moving through tar, and railed against the invisible force. "No. I don't want to."

"Dean."

Castiel pulled Dean's arm closer to him to attract his attention, but Dean only fell forwards and went silent, breathing heavily for a few moments, before looking up with open eyes. He stayed hunched this time, as he blinked at the assembled group, his chin only twenty or so centimeters from the surface of the table. His face turned soft – softer than Dean usually appeared – and the muscles across it relaxed from Dean's determined grimace to a soft pout – almost of confusion.

"Daddy?"

His voice was high again, but sweeter than the last time. Soft and nervous and uncertain – almost a comedic interpretation of a child's. His appearance seemed to startle the bald man across the table next to Cecilia, for he unfroze himself with a shudder, and whispered tearfully: "Mikey?"

His face changed in the candlelight slowly, shifting between utter distress and elation like a shaky work of art. Dean's eyes went to him and he searched the face for a second before murmuring. "No. Not you."

Dean's eyes moved to Cecilia next, and he shook his head, before twisting again to stare at the dour woman. He murmured nonsense to himself as he surveyed each face carefully, squinting to make them out across the candlelight and maintaining the same soft tone.

"No. No. No."

Castiel was watching Dean carefully as Dean finally turned his gaze upon him. He stared only for a moment, before the muscles in his face twisted upwards, and he leaned forward, tilting his face up at Castiel. His eyes turned bright, and shone with more than the reflection of candlelight.

"There."

There was a beat before Castiel froze, realizing the implication of Dean's behavior. His hand jolted and would have dropped from Dean's hold had it not been for Dean's insistent grip. His jaw shuddered as he forced out the word in response, unexpected in the face of Dean's betrayal, that he would use the opportunity to taunt Castiel once again.

"What?"

It took Castiel only a split second to make the conclusion, and his face dropped. The moment this was done, and Dean was safely out of this bizarre circumstance, he would transfer him to another's care. He gritted his teeth and looked determinedly away, staring at Cecilia at the head of the group.

"Dean is done, now. We need to end the session."

Cecilia watched him for a moment, before shaking her head. She didn't have space to answer, before Dean murmured lightly again.

"Daddy?"

Dean breathed out carefully, an impish smile spreading across his face as he leaned closer to Castiel still, dragging his neighbor with him as he anxiously took in each feature of Castiel's face. Castel recoiled slightly – as much as he was able – and twisted his eyes away from Dean's.

"Dean, stop this."

Dean's expression dropped, but it curled into a childish expression, rather than his usual grimace.

"Daddy, I'm sorry."

Castiel's nose twitched as he turned to meet Dean's eyes and glared at him determinedly. He wanted to dismiss him roughly and forcefully, and end the taunt, one and for all. But the ploy was too perfectly constructed. His eyes caught on Dean's face in the candlelight and held there, noting the childish veil of tears assembled at Dean's waterline and his slowly dawning interpretation of Castiel's aggravation.

"I... please don't do this."

"You're so sad."

The man beside Castiel tightened his grip just as Castiel made to pull away, and Dean twisted his head as he surveyed Castiel's expression, lips puckering around a question.

Castiel's voice cracked at the cruel imitation, anger giving way to worse – devastation, that his daughter's memory could be so abused.

Castiel's voice cracked as he forced out the last protest. "Dean, please. Please stop it."

Dean's eyes squinted and he shook his head slowly. "Why?"

The light lilt of Dean's voice – so earnest in its confusion – hit Castiel in the stomach, and in his throat, there was a pulse where a breath of air suddenly clawed its way into his skin and constricted it with the sudden realization.

Dean's face was Dean's face, but twisted in a way that made it foreign. Where his brow was usually furrowed, his eyebrows hung lightly – almost incredulously – high on his forehead. As he spoke, he did so with a strange, slightly incompetent smack of his lips, and his eyes moved slowly and carefully, with none of the sharpness that they would usually – as though they were confused by their surroundings. Confused by Castiel.

He knew the expression.

And the taste of Dean's breath had changed. Strawberries.

"It can't be."

"Daddy?"

Castiel's chest pulsed once, sending his ribcage jutting forward and forcing him closer to Dean as he stared into his eyes with stunned, painful, disbelieving belief.

"C-Claire?"

Castiel's chest thudded again with a sharp score of reality.

It was a folly. Dean was a fraud. A lie. He ought not to fall for it.

"Daddy, it was just for a minute."

"W-what?"

"I only took it off for a second. I dropped my... my... steg... steggy... stegistaurus. I was just getting it, so it wouldn't be dirty."

Castiel's stomach felt like it had burst through his spine behind him as Dean's eyes softened at the edges, and he blinked furiously, as though he could hold back his tears with a squint.

"No."

"It was just for a second... and you looked behind and you said 'seatbelt!'"

Even as Castiel recoiled, with a horrified gasp, Dean leaned forward so they were merely inches apart, and breathed out through soft, aborted gasps.

"I made you sad, Daddy. It was me."

A hush fell over the room as Castiel's face commenced the shaky choreography of those that had preceded him, and he felt a well surge up in him so powerfully that any thought of his project was damned to a sudden, stark and clear belief.

"N-no, darling. Of course you didn't."

"But I did."

Castiel shucked in a small sob as Dean watched him carefully, eyes scanning the twitchy movements of his face as his lips and chin began to tremble violently, and his mouth twisted into a grimace to contain them.

"When I heard you screaming, I tried to come back..."

"Baby, no. No. I wasn't angry."

Dean shook his head slowly, eyes on Castiel's. "I'm sorry, Daddy."

Castiel pressed his lips together to contain another sob. His eyes blurred with a rising shimmer of tears, and beyond the shaking film, Dean's features twisted so that it was Claire's face before him. Castiel held tightly to Dean's hand, running his thumb across its back frantically.

"No, no, my baby. I made myself sad."

Dean's eyes widened, and the worry across his face immediately turned to a strange kind of curiosity – transient, yet familiar all the same. At his hand, Castiel felt the nervous, explorative trace of fingers. Castiel quickly moved his grip upwards to hold firm around Dean's wrist, even as Dean all but released his hold on Castiel to feel out his hands.

"Why?"

Even as he kept his mouth firmly closed to shut out the cry, Castiel's nostrils flared with the sudden drastic efforts he took to breathe in through it. Its inhalation was a small stuttered attempt, punctuated by fear and disbelief, and the sour taste of inexplicable reality.

"B-because I miss you, darling. I miss you so much."

"But I'm here."

"I know. I know, sweetheart. I'm sorry."

Dean's head twisted as he examined Castiel carefully, moving from one side and then to the other in that childish imitation of thought that Castiel knew. The not quite mastery of the subtlety of the act. Learned from Castiel himself as he sat marking papers, while Claire interrupted him with picture after picture that she'd drawn for him – to hang in his office for when he was "missing her". It was a childish, stupid thought. But it was true, he missed her every second he was away from her.

"Daddy, you can't see me."

Castiel shook his head quickly, sniffing tightly as he leaned forward and squeezed Dean's hand.

"N-no, I'm sorry."

Dean shuffled across from Castiel and looked down at his hand, surveying it quickly.

"Dean says... he says I have to go."

Castiel gasped in a small breath, which was followed only moments later with a frightened and tearful assent: "You do. You have to go darling."

"I want to stay with you."

Castiel's throat ached out a tight squeak as his response, as his mouth curdled around a cry.

Dean's eyes filled with tears again as Castiel managed to shake his head once, eyes fixed on Dean's before him. They weren't Dean's though. They were Claire's. He could see them, in their sweetness and innocence. His darling daughter.

"No, Claire. You... you have to go."

Across from them, the dour woman stifled a sob and squeezed her eyes shut as her hands shook in those she held.

"But you'll be sad."

Castiel shook his head again, more desperately, and leaned closer to Dean, ignoring the stream of tears that fell down his cheeks and gathered at his jawline, swinging there with each movement of his head but not quite descending.

"I promise... I won't , darling. I promise."

"Ok."

Dean pronounced uncertainly, pulling backwards slightly and letting loose his hold on Castiel's hand. His eyes scanned the room once, as though he were searching for something, only to come back to Castiel's, widening and staring.

"It's scary."

Castiel's hand squeezed around Dean's and he choked out tightly. "You can do it. You're my brave girl, remember?"

Dean nodded absently and stared beyond Castiel for a moment, before smiling.

"Dean... Dean's holding my hand."

Dean's hand twitched around Castiel's, and a wash of relief spread across his face.

"He says he'll come with me."

The fire of disbelief that lit Castiel's veins was at once washed out with a flood of horror, and he leaned forward, tightening his grip on Dean's hand and stuttering in his face.

"What? Claire, no!"

Dean's eyes turned to Castiel's once, and then they were Dean's eyes. He blinked, before giving a small smile.

"Dean! Dean, no!"

Dean's eyes rolled back into his head and he gave a groan in his own voice, falling backwards with such force that he toppled off his chair and, even as Castiel kept a hold, the bald man lost his contact with Dean's hand. The dour woman screamed as the circle broke, and the candlelight in the room at once went out. In the darkness, Castiel felt the shove of a body behind him as the dark man scampered around him and fumbled at Dean's face and neck, feeling for a pulse. Castiel did the same on his wrist, and when he failed to find one, he hacked out a cry. The bald man crossed the room to the light switch, but flicking it on and off did nothing and the room remained in empty darkness. The dark man was quicker, grabbing at Dean's shoulders and hauling him towards the stairway. Castiel responded quickly, grabbing at his knees and pulling him upwards. With an effort that he scarcely felt, they dragged him up the stairs, stumbling without sight. The hallway was out too, and the dark man scarcely stopped but to pull Dean out into the street, beneath the street light.

As they lowered him and the dark man commenced his examination again, Castiel whirled to see the bald man staring and shaking as he watched Dean lie lifelessly on the tar of the road.

"Call 911! Call it now!"

The bald man was stupefied for a few moments before he came to his senses and fumbled in his pocket desperately, yanking out a phone and tapping into it with shaking fingers. When he turned back, Castiel saw the dark man pumping at Dean's chest vigorously with the heels of his hands and whispering out a count: "One. Two."

"Dean! Dean!"

Despite its impotence, Castiel couldn't help but yell desperately to Dean's unhearing ears, grabbing at his arm and squeezing as though that might jolt him into consciousness.

"Hello? Please! We need an ambulance. 42 Markham Street. We're on the road, you need to come now!"

The dark man pulled back from Dean's chest and pinched his noise, dropping his lips to Dean and breathing into his mouth.

"Now, please! He's not breathing!"

"Dean. Please. Please, don't!"

As the dark man moved back to chest compressions, Castiel leaned forward, staring at Dean's empty expression – so bereft now of Claire's features, and so obviously _Dean_again in its vulnerability.

"Please, Dean, you can't do this."

The darker man pushed him aside again to carry out more resuscitation, and Castiel sat backwards, searching aimlessly through the streets for a strand of reason that could not be found.

"Oh God. Oh God."

The darker man pulled back staring at Dean for a moment, before he looked at the bald man and his expression fell. "No!" Castiel fell forward, pressing at Dean's chest himself with inexpert, fumbling hands.

"Come on. Come on."

Even without skill, there was a sudden burst of life beneath his fingers, and with a soft groan, Dean's head fell to the side and his eyes searched blearily.

"Casss."

"Dean! Oh my God."

There was a cry behind him as the dour woman fell backwards, clutching at her chest and sobbing in a mixture between relief and overwhelmed desperation, and the bald man rushed to her, grabbing her underneath the arms as she sunk slowly to the ground.

"Cas…?"

Castiel pulled back to find Dean searching blearily beneath him.

"I'm here. I'm here."

Dean's eyes fixed on him, still thrumming with some unknown intensity, before he sighed and his brow furrowed. "Wh-what happened?"

END OF PART ONE


	9. Itself full

**CHAPTER NINE**

Despite and Castiel and Dean's combined adversity to the hospital, Dean was technically dead for over a minute. In light of that fact, there was no way Dean could wrestle his way from the clutches of the paramedics that arrived on the scene to find him still semi-conscious and delirious, lying on the damp street before the house. As they loaded him into the ambulance, he looked to Castiel for a kind of explanation, or perhaps the kind of assistance that Castiel had been able to offer previously. Instead, he found Castiel struck dumb and unable even to give his name to the paramedics, who were forced to turn to the dark man for an account of Dean's injury.

It was only Dean's protest as they attempted to close the doors to the ambulance on him that had Castiel brought along in the vehicle at all.

"Cas. I need Cas."

Dean did not extend the invitation to the others, and they watched silently as the doors were closed between them. The ambulance, despite Dean's having reawaken, turned on its sirens and roared away from the scene with a roaring howl that did little to drown out the disquiet in Castiel's mind.

Dean passed from consciousness again on the ride to the hospital. While Castiel rushed forward crying and gasping, the paramedics assured him that Dean's heart was beating, and he could be offered treatment at the hospital – the reaction was shock only.

Dean's treatment was three hours in emergency where he was assessed, prodded and medicated. Castiel himself was given a shock blanket and a juice box, the latter which he left untouched and balanced precariously on the armrest of the plastic chair beside him. It was eventually felled by a passing orderly who was in such a hurry that he didn't even notice the spread of the orange liquid across the sticky linoleum floor.

Across the ED, Castiel heard Dean ask repeatedly and aggressively for him. However, they were refused one another's company until eventually Dean refused to consent to any further testing. Castiel was brought to the cubicle in which Dean was being monitored, and sat on a provided plastic chair impotently as the doctors referred to quizzing Dean for an explanation of the events leading up to his admission.

While Dean threw a number of glances at Castiel, in obvious hope for a better explanation, he was met with only a blank stare and heavy silence. Eventually, Dean mumbled something about "having a fright" in the basement of a dingy house he had been visiting.

"Why were you on that property?"

"For a séance," Dean replied, with such bland audacity that the doctors seemed to imagine it was a falsity and one even rolled their eyes when they turned to leave the cubicle.

Eventually they moved Dean to a ward for more monitoring. It was a private one, likely due to Dean's "mental state", which was discussed between the nurses without much care for his hearing. No one really gave instructions as to what Castiel ought to do – it seemed they assumed he would stay with Dean regardless. Whether that was an assumption gleaned from his gormless state, or Dean's attachment to him, it was difficult to assess.

As soon as they were properly alone, however, Dean pulled himself from his bed, straining the IV line that hung from a metal rod and extended into the back of his hand. He stared directly at Castiel, eyes focused, and whispered urgently.

"Cas. Are you alright?"

Castiel only blinked blearily in response, as if he had been the one to have been injured and Dean were recovering him.

In a way, he considered wearily, that might be true. For his academic and personal belief system had fractured, and from the cracked edges was spilling – in a slow slide – the implications of that knowledge.

Where his mind sought to attend to the ruptures and gloss over the weight of their revelation, it could posit a thin temporary adhesive only as a safeguard. He did not imagine the films would hold for long, and he dreaded the occasion of their splitting.

When Castiel didn't respond, Dean had the audacity to reach out and touch his face and turn it towards his own, breathing out softly as he carefully searched Castiel's expression for a sign of catastrophe. Castiel opened his mouth to speak, and the dryness within it was audible by the smack of the skin peeling off itself. He immediately closed it again to swallow, and Dean tracked the effort cautiously, before pulling away and seating himself on the bed, folding his hands at his lap.

"I know that you think I did it delib-"

"I don't."

Castiel sat still, rendered immobile by the force of his own declaration and the sudden weight of Dean's expectation that permeated the air.

"What?"

The question was light and disbelieving, but there was a veiled desperation in it, and Dean's right foot twitched from where it hung off the hospital bed. His fists clenched in the sheets beside him.

"You mean-"

Castiel swallowed and a slight sound of nausea escaped him with the effort. Dean gasped lightly, before leaning forward and being halted by the extent of his IV line. With a huff, he swung himself over to the other end of his bed and grabbed at his IV pole, swerving it around the base of the bed until he was able to move off the mattress and slide to Castiel's side. He laid a hand on Castiel's shoulder without a thought, and squeezed lightly, calling Castiel back from the brink upon which he hovered.

"The things you said, Dean… there was no way you could have known…" Castiel's throat wheezed around a pained exhale, forcing down an acidic taste of disbelief that threatened to erupt on the pristine hotel floor. Dean kneeled down beside Castiel, using his shoulder for support, and craned to meet Castiel's gaze beneath his hung head.

"What did I say, Cas?"

"You don't remember?"

Dean's jaw juddered in an aborted attempt to speak, before he looked down to stare at the floor and knotted his fingers in the edge of his hospital gown.

"I-I know that Claire came. I asked her not to, Cas. I'd promised you and-"

"It's alright. I heard you asking her to stay away."

Dean didn't look up at Castiel's reassurance, although he relaxed slightly against the legs of the chair, and he hunched forward over the floor, moving his eyes to Castiel's knee.

"I only remember that she asked me to help her go. And then you called me back. And the spirits told me I wasn't allowed to stay."

Dean's own swallow was sticky with effort, as he turned back to Castiel and pressed his lips together.

Castiel's voice was a hoarse whisper when he managed to squeeze out the words, and Dean seemed to feel the effort of them, for he tensed beside Castiel and held his breath.

"Where did she go?"

A muscle at Dean's jaw twitched with the effort of concealing a more sudden response, and he breathed in and out slowly, before he answered dully: "I don't know."

"_What_?"

Dean hung his head in shame, and returned to pulling at the edge of his gown, where had ridden up around his thigh as a result of his positioning crouched on the floor.

"They just go… on. I don't know where that is. If there's a Heaven or… I've asked, so many times. But the spirits don't answer. Except the ones who promise that there's a Hell."

Castiel jolted forwards, running his hands pointlessly across his face in a burst of effort that he had no conception of initiating: "You don't think-"

Dean rose quickly to placate Castiel, with a hand to either side of his shoulders, pressing in tightly on his arms, as though he were holding him within himself.

"If anyone was going to the good place, it'd be her Cas. Those spirits are nuts. They're liars. They try to scare you for kicks. It's-"

He paused as Castiel keeled forward and wracked out a dry sob, accompanied by a heave of emotion that slammed against his chest and recoiled, having no effective means to dispel itself as readily as it required.

"Oh, Cas."

Castiel raised a hand to his face and ran it across his eyes at the tears that failed to arrive, swiping at his skin as though he could wash it of the rising grief. When Castiel continued to fall forwards, as far as he might move out of his chair, Dean was quick to step forward to catch him, and without realizing how it happened, he moved Castiel to his own hospital bed and sat him there, sitting at his side and slinging an arm around his shoulder.

"Cas, I'm so sorry."

Any answer Castiel attempted to make was twisted on its journey from his brain to his mouth and converted to an animal sound of remorse, before he conceded defeat and twisted into Dean's hold, burying his face into his shoulder. Dean's body stayed relaxed as he wrapped his other arm around Castiel and pulled him close, leaning back awkwardly so that Castiel was balanced on his chest. As Castiel breathed out hot breaths of air into Dean's gown that echoed back to him with a stale taste, Dean twisted them so that they were lying back against the raised upper half of his hospital bed.

The position allowed Castiel space, and he pulled away from Dean slightly to curl closer into the mattress, and while Dean allowed him the free area, he kept a tight enough hold around Castiel that he could placate at least a few of the rising tremors with a silent body.

Castiel lost himself for a few minutes then. The events of the night replayed themselves with cruel clarity and his mind revisited the turns again and again to identify further aspects that sought to disrupt him so properly. The twist of Dean's mouth as he had smiled at Castiel – higher on the left than on the right. It was the same crooked sweetness that Amelia said Claire had inherited from Castiel.

The light dancing tone of Dean's voice. So unpracticed in inflection. Uncertainty laced across every tone – that anxiety to impress that Castiel had loved about his daughter. She was so conscious to delight everyone around her, but in a selfless rather than self-attentive way. That tone of voice had been used to announce the handmade Christmas presents that she had presented to Amelia and Castiel the year before her death.

The klutzily made boxes were part of a craft set that a distant relative had given here. Castiel's had been covered in violet jewels – Claire's favorite color at the time – and inside she had left him a necklace of her own making. A studded seashell hung on a plastic black tie – another craft set atrocity – but a necklace he had happily worn for several months until the poorly constructed thing had fallen apart and he had carefully hidden the event so as not to disappoint Claire. Amelia had kissed him for that, and cherished his sweetness. "You are such a good father, darling," she'd said.

The events Dean had spoken to had been inexplicable. Claire's utter inability to pronounce the name of her favorite toy – her stegosaurus - given to her by a boy called Noah at her kindergarten at which Amelia, grin wide, had leaned over to Castiel and whispered: "I think he has a crush on her".

There was no way Dean could have known that Castiel had turned to insist she wear her seatbelt after she dropped that toy on the floor of the car moments before the crash that had killed Claire. He hadn't seen the truck. The last thing Claire had seen had been him screaming for her.

"Cas, she's at peace now. I promise."

Castiel nodded into the pillow that Dean moved beneath his head and adjusted to that his neck was better positioned. The cries hardly ceased, and Dean grew bolder in his touches, tracing careful circles into Castiel's arms and across his back as he tried to encourage the exhaustion of the grief.

"You need to forgive yourself now. It's over."

Castiel shook his head into the pillow, and Dean's hands paused in their rotation across Castiel, and he twisted so he could lower his gaze to look at Castiel's face. Castiel saw his expression through a sheen of tears, but said nothing, apart to hiccup hopelessly against the air between them. Dean's entire expression drooped as he stared at Castiel, before he reached and took one of his hands – holding it tightly.

"In the end, we all have to go, Cas. One way or another. There was always going to be a time when you had to leave her alone."

…

Castiel awoke with an uncomfortable twist in his neck that failed to unwind as he moved his head off the pillow, and in an unfamiliar room. It was dark, aside from the lit screen of a monitor that had been attached to Dean, and was pulsing with the slow beat of his heart as he lay awake, staring at the ceiling. At Castiel's movement, he looked to the side, and he pinpricks of light in his eyes – reflected from an unknown source – searched Castiel's face.

"Cas?"

Castiel was bleary and muffled as he shifted, searching for sensation in his limbs and summoning a voice to a cottony mouth. "What happened?"

"You fell asleep."

Castiel murmured a nonsense as his voice adjusted to waking, and he stared around the room.

"What time is it?"

Dean shrugged from where he lay against the bed, and whispered: "not sure," before reaching behind Castiel's back and fumbling for his phone on the bedside table. When the screen turned on, he winced, and scrunched his eyes shut for several seconds before he returned to it and read: "5am".

Castiel stared at the empty room for a moment, before his senses returned to him, and he looked back to Dean, whispering urgently. "Are you alright?"Your-"

Dean patted him on the back without a second thought and twisted in the bed.

"They've been checking me every half hour. My heart is fine."

Castiel's eyes travelled to the monitor and he stared at it for a moment, piecing together the fragments with the pulse of the image, before looking back to Dean. "They were here while I was asleep?"

Even thought it was dark, Castiel could sense Dean's blush. Perhaps it was in the uncertain stammer of his heart on the screen, or the way he froze in the bed, from where he lay unabashedly next to Castiel and their knees touched.

"I, uh… I hope you don't mind. I told them you were my partner."

He paused, waiting for Castiel's reaction. When none come, he fumbled quickly for further explanation.

"I mean, I didn't say… they kind of assumed it from the way you were sleeping. And they would have kicked you out, if I had said otherwise. I'm not supposed to have visitors. But…"

"I am hardly bothered by that conclusion having been drawn, Dean. Don't worry yourself."

Dean shifted slightly on the bed, pulling his knee away from Castiel's and making a space between them self-consciously.

"I'm sorry. I mean, you know, I know I'm gay like… 30% of the time, but I promise that it was just comfort Cas. I wouldn't."

In the darkness of the room, and exhausted of any further emotion, Castiel couldn't help but breathe out a quiet laugh.

"I would hardly flatter myself, Dean. Especially in this context."

There was a beat, before Dean breathed out a relieved sigh. Taking the words as permission, he reached out again and felt for Castiel's back, rubbing a few circles into it slowly in a tentative kind of reassurance.

"Don't sell yourself so short, Cas."

The scent of Castiel's tears previously still hung heavy in the air between them, and soured the moment, and Castiel ran a drowsy hand down his face, wiping off the rest of sleep's haze before he searched the room with strained eyes for a light source.

Dean didn't move to speak beside him, apart from sighing softly and leaning backwards into the pillow.

"You should rest some more, Dean."

Dean shook his head across the pillow, causing the rough filling to sound beneath the movement of his head.

"Not now. I have way too much to think about. And the doctors are due again soon. Besides, I swear to God this pillow is stuffed with plastic bags."

He sat quietly as Castiel shuffled beside him, feeling for the edge of the bed and making to move off it. He was stopped by the light touch of Dean's arm, and a moment later, the shine of a mobile phone flashlight which illuminated the room.

"Where are you going?"

"Just… I need the bathroom."

He didn't, and Dean seemed to sense that in the pause in which the sentence was constructed. Nonetheless, he passed Castiel his phone and gave him directions before reclining on the bed sleepily. Castiel slid himself from beneath the blanket that had been thrown atop them and trekked across the room quietly. The corridor was lit outside, and a solitary nurse passed him as he made his way to the bathrooms. Her smile was sweet, and knowing, and Castiel looked away embarrassedly until he found his location.

Inside the room, he had little to do but wait out the duration of his lie in order that Dean wouldn't be offended. His face was a little sticky, and still hot with tears, and he washed it quickly with water. In the mirror, his coat and suit were rumpled and utterly unwearable – creased from the angle at which he had lain and the weight at which he had exacted upon the folded fabric.

The room was hollow, and hummed with fluorescence. Castiel found, for the first time, his eyes searching the space suspiciously, almost suspecting some kind of intimation of an invisible presence. He reprimanded himself a moment later, and then again when his sub-conscious provided him with the image of Dean's face wearing Claire's. His academic tricks were over.

With a solemn look at himself in the mirror, Castiel turned his eyes to stare beyond himself into its depths, such that he was watching the corner of the room intently, almost forcing himself to imagine a presence to hide his own foolishness.

"C-Claire?"

The hum continued evenly without interruption and the light above him burned consistently, without flicker. The corner was immovable and his vision scarcely distorted. Just empty space. Cool empty space.

No space could be that empty were his daughter there. She was too bright and sweet to not fill it with sunlight.

With pursed lips and a defeated nod, Castiel turned back to the mirror, nodding at his reflection once before looking down to turn off the running water. As the sink gave a small howl with the force of the water being expelled from it being stopped, he murmured into the dying sound:

"Goodbye baby. I love you."

There was a shiver at the back of his neck, and he turned with a fury to find the room empty again. He felt his tear ducts swell, prepared to commence his second episode of grief, but they were dried from the exhaustion of the first and no tears came. Eventually with a hanging head he was forced to return through the sticky hospital corridors and slide behind the curtain that closed off Dean's room.

"Dean?"

"Cas?"

The voice was small, and terrified, and Castiel quickly turned the mobile phone flashlight to the wall, searching out a light switch. When he located it, he expected Dean to flinch, but he only closed his eyes and sighed in seeming relief, gasping a few breaths in before raising a trembling hand to cover his eyes.

"Dean?"

Castiel moved forward quickly, but Dean flinched lightly from his touch. A moment later, he dropped his hand and looked as Castiel with desperate apology.

"Shit, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean that."

Castiel shook his head as an indication that Dean ought not to worry, but kept his hands by his sides as he turned and looked around the room quickly for a sign of what Dean had seen that had stretched him so. At his side, Dean's monitor pulsed brazenly, and began to beep in an alert to the nurses.

"What happened?"

"I…"

Dean's lips trembled, and he stared away determinedly from Castiel, holding his hand to his throat and breathing heavily. When his eyes moved to Castiel's, there was a flash of another answer, before he covered quickly, with the same feeble tone that Castiel had used to excuse himself from the room in the first place.

"Just… I just dropped off. It was a nightmare."

Even though his entire expression screamed it was obviously a lie, he was reprieved from Castiel's interference by the rush of nurses into the room, who bustled into the room. They moved quickly to the monitor to check Dean's pulse, and pushed Castiel aside as they conducted a quick examination. Castiel stood at the side of the room, even after Dean's heart rate slowed to normal. A doctor followed quickly, and stayed while Dean repeated is nightmare explanation ad nauseum. When the group departed, they did so with an expression of dissatisfaction, making notes on various clipboards.

Dean reclined in the bed and stared at the ceiling silently. Castiel eventually moved to turn of the light switch, but Dean stopped him with a cracked voice: "Can you leave it on, Cas?"

Castiel obliged him and moved to seat himself on the bench beside Dean's bed. Dean watched him position himself there, lips in a straight line, and eyes uncertain.

"You're gonna stay?"

"Yes."

Castiel answered simply, pulling his trenchcoat around himself and sliding downwards in the chair. Dean watched him for a moment, biting his lip, before pulling the uppermost layer of blankets off his bed and throwing them gracelessly to Castiel. Castiel caught them, and Dean stared at him for a moment, before he lay backwards on the bed and positioned himself so that he was lying on his back, head tilted slightly away from Castiel's.

"Get some more sleep, Cas. You need it."

The irony of the statement had enough volume in it that Castiel did not need to address it further, and he merely nodded, despite being out of Dean's vision, and scooted backwards in the chair. He closed his eyes, but the presence of light above him was sufficiently distracting that he knew sleep would not be forthcoming. In any event, he scarcely minded, for in the wake of a few hours' successful rest, he doubted that he would have managed more, given the distracting re-imaginings of the night's events that plagued his mind. In a sense, it was a relief to be troubled by something so trivial as a flickering lightbulb, and Dean's light snore when he managed to snatch an hour's sleep at 8am, in between doctors' checks.

…

Dean was monitored for several more days, before he was discharged, with a shaky diagnosis and a pointless medication prescription. Castiel stayed at the hospital for the duration, exiting only upon Dean's request to retrieve "real food" from beyond the hospital cafeteria. The University was gracious enough to cancel Castiel's classes, although he did spend several hours a day on his phone answering emails from students, worried about the deadlines of tests, essays and other matters so hopelessly trivial in light of the days Castiel spent at Dean's side. His replies were terse, and some kind of story must have gotten around, because the emails eventually tapered off, and Castiel was left to his own imagination again.

Dean was bashful about the company most of the time, and spent a lot of it sleeping. When he wasn't, he insisted on letting Castiel "do his work", and re-read the same three magazines Castiel had purchased for him from the convenience store across the road.

The sleeping did Dean well, and his face filled in a way it hadn't before. Not with weight, but with ease – a swell beneath the skin that spoke to energy. He no longer looked as if he had been drained dry. When he did capture Castiel's attention it was with a joke, or a wink when the nurses were around. One nurse pronounced Castiel "lucky" – an allusion to their fictional relationship – and Dean was mildly hysterical for the following hour at Castiel's ensuing and awkward: "thank you."

When Dean was discharged, the same nurse gave him careful and officious instructions to monitor Dean at all times for the next week. Dean was to rest "in bed" and there was to be no "vigorous activity" of any sort, for at least two weeks. Castiel, failing to understand the implication, asked for clarification as to what kind of activity might be classified as vigorous. The nurse detailed the obvious: running, heavy lifting, and so on, before trailing off and flushing. When Castiel made to follow up, Dean muttered: "Jesus Christ, Cas" and hid his face in second-hand embarrassment.

Dean did rely on Castiel's support on the way to the car – even in the few days of not walking he was noticeably a little unsteadier on his feet, and less certain outside the hospital walls. However, he was perky as Castiel drove them through the streets back to his home, only slowing when they reached the driveway and Dean looked to Castiel embarrassedly.

"I know they said… but you don't have to stay."

"Do you have anyone else?"

Dean thought for a moment, but refused to give an answer when the truth became obvious.

Castiel merely watched him for a moment, before exiting his car and moving around to Dean's side to open to door, helping him haul himself out and escorting him up the stairs to his home.

"I will contact the University about giving my lectures via Skype for the next week. I won't leave you alone, Dean."

Dean's eyes shone with something unexpected, as he turned to Castiel, and whispered a quick: "thank you".

Inside the house, Dean shut off again, but his gratitude was still palpable. He connected Castiel's laptop to his neighbour's wifi ("look, some months it's just a bit tight, alright. I only use it for necessities"), and went about salvaging materials for a makeshift bed on the couch. He even offered his bed, though Castiel refused it pointedly, noting that Dean's health condition was the reason for his stay. Dean even insisted they take a trip to the supermarket nearby his house to retrieve food to Castiel's tastes ("trust me on this, Cas") and insisted they detour past Castiel's home to pack him a selection of clothing for the week he was to stay.

The exercise ended up leaving Dean a little exhausted, and by the time they arrived at Castiel's home, he merely sat on Castiel's gaudishly floral couch and wheezed. While he was a little pale, however, there seemed to be no lasting consequence, and when Castiel nervously fumbled with the card for the on-call advice nurse they had been directed to, Dean silenced him with a pointed look and glare. It was only on the way home that Dean re-energized, and had the energy to tease Castiel for his accommodation. "Here I was thinking you lived in some kind of House and Garden thing. And it turns out it's practically granny flat."

"It's two bedrooms."

"The couch has flowers on it."

"I inherited that."

"Doesn't stop it being ugly."

In the evening, Castiel prepared them a meal with what he had at his disposal. Dean had attempted to pay for everything at the counter, given its contents had been largely directed by his doctor. However, Castiel was granted the reprieve of Dean having forgotten his wallet, and while Dean insisted he would pay him back, Castiel studiously avoided the subject for the duration of the evening. The meal was plain and simple – the fish Dean had been advised, with cooked brown rice. It was flavorless and unappetizing to Castiel – he had not yet considered how the meal might be enhanced. Nonetheless, Dean attacked it ravenously and expressed his thanks and satisfaction with it several times over throughout the course of the evening.

Dean set up his television for them after dinner, and he surfed through a series of mindless game shows, while Castiel balanced his laptop on his knee and flickered his gaze over occasionally to check Dean was still doing well.

Several times, as he did so, he caught Dean doing the same, and every time Dean blushed heartily and rubbed nervously at the edge of his mouth with the back of his hand, focusing intently on the task. Eventually, however, as Castiel became engrossed in marking essays, Dean watched him more openly, until finally he asked childishly: "What'cha doin' Cas?"

Castiel frowned and laboriously dragged his cursor to highlight the offending section, and moved his hands to the keyboard.

"Marking… my undergraduate course have essays due."

Dean sucked in his cheeks as Castiel quickly tapped out a comment for his student's perusal, and then continued scanning the page.

"Hm… any good?"

"Some are very good. The majority are competent. A few are less so."

Dean snickered and turned his gaze back to the television, eyes flickering across it pointlessly as the host summarily dismissed the contestant that had failed so parlously in whatever trivia test had promised them fame and fortune.

"I find…"

Castiel stopped, and trailed off, and Dean shifted on his chair to look backwards at him.

"What?"

"Nothing."

Dean's lips twitched, and his eyes raked Castiel once, before he twisted further in his chair.

"Spit it out."

Castiel raised a hand and rubbed at his temple once, before looking back to Dean and running his hand down his face.

"My students are… they are writing what they expect me to like in these essays."

"What? Mocking wack jobs like me?"

Castiel winced at the harshness of the phrase and when he looked up, Dean seemed taken aback, for he was watching Castiel openly, and without reservation.

"… disproving, perhaps."

Dean blinked twice, before clicking his tongue and raising his eyebrows once.

"That's what you're after isn't it?"

The words seemed biting, yet there was no malice in them. In fact, there was only genuine question, and perhaps a little anticipating uncertainty in the rise of their tone.

Castiel was unable to look at Dean as he answered softly: "I don't know anymore."

Dean smacked his lips apart and paused for a moment, contemplating the announcement that, while made innocuously, they both knew meant much more. With a sniff, Dean rose from his chair, and made his way to the kitchen, shuffling through his fridge and extracting a bottle with a rough clink. When he returned, he held it back to Castiel unabashedly, and forced it into his hand when he refused to take it.

"I know it's not the proper way of dealing with things. But just take it, alright?"

Castiel did, although merely set it on the table beside him, and scarcely bothered to look at the label to see what Dean had retrieved him. He stared at his screen for a few moments, before murmuring lightly.

"I suppose I always thought… I was helping."

Dean was quick to react then, leaning across his chair and reaching tightly for Castiel's arm.

"Don't go there, Cas. Just don't. You are helping."

Even though Dean's tone was urgent, Castiel continued in a bland manner.

"But I was wrong about you."

Dean's head tilted to the side in a slow recoil, as though he could withdraw from the statement somehow, and he shook his head.

"Stop it."'

"I was Dean. You can't deny that. I saw you speak as my daughter. There was no way you could have known…"

He trailed off, and brought a hand to his mouth for a moment, brushing across the stubble that had accrued there in the time that he had waited at the hospital with Dean.

"Cas, I know where you're going with this, and I don't want you to."

Castiel looked to see Dean half off his chair, hand cramped tightly against its arm and squeezing as though he could constrict Castiel's vocal chords and end the sentences he was so desperate not to hear. Castiel only shook his head blithely, chuckling darkly.

"Why? You were right. And I was rude to you."

The words seemed to hit Dean hard, and he moved backwards rather than forwards in his chair. Beyond them, the television still flickered on mute, and scenes without narrative played out before blank stares. Dean was pulsing beside him, though Castiel could not discern with what, but he left it to stew for some time before eventually concocting the perfect phrasing, and turning to Castiel again.

"You know, when all of this started. I went to a church."

Castiel inclined his head to indicate his hearing, but otherwise did nothing to acknowledge Dean's attempts. Dean scarcely seemed to mind, plowing on cautiously, his voice hitching with every slight movement of Castiel opposite him.

"I guess I thought… God had to be somewhere in it, you know. Or that I was crazy."

He raised his hand to rub at his ear, before running it back through his bristled hair.

"They weren't the most open bunch. To what I could do. Well, at least I figured that. I never really said anything but I guess people pick up on that kind of thing."

His voice retreated for a moment as he relived a memory too private to share, and Castiel sighed into the space between them.

"There was this one old lady though - she was really sweet. The good kind of Christian, you know? All about charity and love and… just really good."

He breathed out a small laugh.

"And while everyone else was just yammering on about praise Jesus, she just kinda told it like it was. I really liked listenin' to her."

Dean paused, reaching the crescendo of whatever he intended to say, and beside him, Castiel heard his chair squeak as he looked to him across the room.

"This one thing she said… it was one of the best things I'd ever heard anyone say, and it really stuck with me. It made me feel ok about what I could do."

He pursed his lips, and sat up straighter to declare the words, with a kind of deferential holiness: "She said that humans… we teach each other how to die."

The words hung in the air for a moment, before he stammered.

"I mean, she said it better, but…" He faltered slightly, and fell back in his chair. "I guess, well, what I took from that was that …what I can do… that really really helps some people. They need to know that their family is ok and that there'll be somewhere for them to go. Other people, they need the whole Heaven thing."

Dean's hand raised to mid-air for a moment, as though he might illustrate something in the space, but he thought the better of it.

"And some people need to think there's a Hell too. To feel better about wrongs that got done to them while they were here and to justify how hard it is to be good, you know. To make them feel good about leaving – they feel like they can leave things behind."

Dean swallowed carefully, and turned to Castiel slowly.

"And some people, Cas. They need to know that there's nothing. The tired people, and the fuck ups. We just wanna know that one day it'll all be over one way or the other. That there doesn't have to be meaning in it. That we're not losing anything if we fail… or if we don't try."

Across from Dean, Castiel gulped a harsh breath but otherwise stayed silent as Dean continued.

"I mean, I don't know if you're wrong. Not really. I know they pass on – that dying isn't the first end to it. But maybe there's another. They don't know before they go, and if they go they don't come back. The one's here are the ones that haven't gone past the veil yet."

Dean sighed.

"Sometimes the spirits tell me that they can see their family in the light. Spirits who died years and years ago, who had gone. But I can never see them. Who am I to say whether it's a trick or not? They could be dying all over again. I don't know."

Dean ran a hand across his lips, in mimicry of Castiel's earlier posturing.

"I'm saying this so badly, Cas. But, what I mean is… none of us can ever really know, or do anything about it. We'll all hit the brick wall eventually, and the only way is up. Just 'cause you thought one way, it doesn't mean you're wrong. And even if you are… does it really matter?"

Casitel absorbed the words slowly, stomach churning as he knitted his fingers at his lap. Dean let out a shaky sigh as his monologue ceased, and with a nervous glance at Castiel, he leaned backwards in his chair and pressed his fingers to his mouth, palms pressed together as though in prayer.

"I can't help you, Dean. I wanted to help you."

Castiel's voice was hoarse and harsh, wrecked from the past days' and the enormity of the way Dean's words filled the room. Even Dean seemed to slump beneath them, forgetting to breathe on every second breath, and seemingly to full of effort in turning his gaze back to Castiel.

Dean's own voice was light too, as he answered, and meek.

"It doesn't matter, Cas. I want you to stay anyway."


	10. Once,

**CHAPTER TEN**

Dean's monologue was the implied dismissal of Castiel's duties as a psychologist, and the beginning of his duties as a friend. Without conscience of it, that night when Dean rose to make his way to his bedroom, he patted Castiel lightly on the shoulder and smiled openly and earnestly. When Castiel woke up from a nightmare at around 3am, remembering how Dean had crumpled with his daughter's voice still on his lips, ready to go with her, Dean emerged from his room again and sat by Castiel on the couch, staring silently at the wall and eventually dropping back off to sleep.

Castiel was too embarrassed to move to Dean's room, or disturb him, so he moved instead to the armchair beside Dean. When he awoke again, Dean was already up and had draped a blanket across his lap. In the kitchen, he was treading quietly, but upon the first creak of Castiel's eyes, he stumbled and knocked something of the counter. While Dean kept his curse to a whisper, it was still audible where Castiel sat, and he spared Dean his misery by standing and making his way to the kitchen.

"Oh shit. Sorry Cas. I didn't wake you?"

"No."

Dean blushed ad gestured to a plastic bag and a series of apples retained within it that had rolled in all directions on the floor. "I'm having a go at… fruit salad. Not doin' so great. Having a heart attack sucks."

Castiel grimaced and got down on his hands and knees to retrieve the fruit, and caught Dean's blush as he stood – a few bunched in his T-shirt – and held them out to Dean.

"We can wash them. Or peel them, if you prefer."

Dean only gaped and Castiel was forced to commence the task on his own, while Dean busied himself in the fridge and extracted a bag of grapes and melon. Castiel worked silently as he pottered, until Dean retrieved his final purchase – a bushel of bananas – and placed them at Castiel's side.

"So, how're we doing this?"

Castiel smiled lightly and pointed to Dean's cupboards. "We need a large bowl, and you can pour a cup of orange juice in it."

Dean bustled to comply, stretching a few times, and popping out a crick in his neck while he stared into the fridge in search of the juice. When Castiel turned to check his progress, he caught Dean idly scratching his back – the movement drawing up the hem of his t-shirt and exposing a thin line of pale skin above the waist of his pajama pants. It was an oddly domestic picture to be privy to, and struck Castiel as somehow even more unexpected than the fact that Dean had converted his entire belief system in one fell swoop.

When Dean turned, he quickly moved back to work, and slid a peeled and diced apple to the side of the chopping board. Dean did his duty, and returned to Castiel, cradling the bowl and staring at the counter top where there was insufficient room to place it. In response, Castiel merely picked up the board and pushed the first of the fruit into the bowl, immersing it in orange juice. Dean had approximated the cup, rather than measured it, and the result was clearly closer to two.

"So… you're some kind of health freak?"

"I would hardly say that."

"I've never had a fruit salad in my life."

Castiel chuckled light and turned back to the cutting board, pulling one of the bananas from the stem and cracking it at the tip.

"There's a first time for everything."

Dean winced as Castiel easily cut through the mushy texture of the banana.

"I hate those things."

Castiel paused in his movement to slide the fruit from the chopping board to the bowl.

"You bought them. I thought-"

Dean stopped Castiel with a roll of his eyes and held the bowl forwards. "Doctor's orders, Cas. Stick it in there."

His eyes flickered upwards a moment later, as though he were checking something, but when Castiel failed to respond, he merely smiled brightly and swirled the juice around the fruit and muttered something along the lines of: "Drown it in juice."

The task was over quickly, although Dean delayed the meal by suddenly insisting he needed to get changed first, even though Castiel remained in a dressing gown. It seemed, when he sat down at the table, with a pout marring his expression, that it had been a childish delaying tactic. For he looked at the mix of orange, grape and apple on his spoon with marked distaste as Castiel took a mouthful and turned his gaze to staring at the two day old paper before him. Dean winced at the first bite, and swallowed after only two chews. Castiel looked up, and Dean immediately contorted his expression, smiling weakly and murmuring: "S'not so bad."

There was a beat, before they both laughed lightly, and Dean looked back down at his plate with a flush.

"To be honest, breakfast is usually leftover pizza. Or… like, twinkies or something. I can't remember the last time I had a proper one. 'Sides from that one you bought me"

Castiel mused over the statement, turning the page of his paper and surveying it quickly. "If you behave yourself and follow your diet, I'll take you out for a cooked breakfast as a reward."

The statement was short, sharp, and blank, but Dean seemed to freeze around it, and when Castiel looked up for the explanation for the silence, Dean colored quickly. "Sure Cas, sounds fun."

An amicable pace settled over the breakfast. Dean made his way through three quarters of the salad before he started to make more insistent noises of protest, and Castiel was starkly reminded of feeding a toddler. Dean established a preference for the orange and apple, and tried to hide his banana slices under his spoon. Castiel cleared Dean's plate and spooned the leftovers into the bin, turning back to see Dean flushed red and staring determinedly at the table – clearly embarrassed to have been caught out.

Dean then managed to delay for an hour more before Castiel persuaded him to the next task on his agenda.

"The doctor did say you were ready to commence short bouts of exercise."

Dean grimaced, before eventually conceding to a more severe gaze from Castiel. "Right, ok boss. Give me a few minutes."

He let Castiel leave to get changed, and marveled at the sight of him in plain grey T-shirt and jeans when he emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later.

"You own something other than a suit?"

Castiel ignored the jibe in favor of lacing up his shoes, and stating blithely "of course." Dean clicked his tongue and shook his head at Castiel despairingly, and moved to the corridor ahead of him once Castiel was ready. Castiel kept a careful eye on Dean on the stairs and stood near to him for the duration of the fifteen minute walk around the block. Dean kept his eyes determinedly downward most of the time, and shuffled slowly along the pavement. At one point, he tripped, and Castiel moved to catch him immediately. However, he righted himself and stood smirking: "I got this, Cas. Did you see that save?"

Castiel's phone buzzed three times with calls as they meandered around the block, and on the fourth ring, Dean (with a slightly sweaty brow), took shelter at a nearby bus stop and waved Castiel on to answer it. He fumbled quickly in his pocket, taking a few steps away from Dean and bracing himself when the screen identified Meg as the caller.

"Hello Meg."

"Hello stranger."

Meg's drawl was friendly, despite the barbed phrase and there was the scrape of a chair on the other end of the line as she settled herself, before asking: "I hear you're off the next week. I was checking in."

"I'm sorry. I had meant to text you. I'm well."

"Amelia's worried sick. You should call her."

Castiel threw Dean a glance before turning away, and lowering his voice slightly, even though Dean had deliberately become fascinated with a house across the road from him. "How would she know?"

"I called her and asked."

"_Meg_."

"It was an honest mistake! And I was worried. It's not like you."

Castiel sighed and took a few further steps from Dean, rubbing at his forehead.

"It happened suddenly. Dean had... an accident."

"What?!"

"He was hospitalized."

Meg paused on the end of the line, before muttering "Sheesh," and contemplating Castiel's statement. "And you're what? Playing nursemaid?"

"It's a favor."

Meg paused on the other end of the line and Castiel heard the rough huff of her breath, as she pondered over his words. "Hell of a favor for a book subject."

Castiel didn't answer, and for whatever reason, Meg didn't push him further. Rather, she gave only a light huff and muttered: "We'll talk when you're back at the University, Clarence. In the meantime, there was something else I ought to tell you."

Castiel arched an eyebrow and leaned his into his phone.

"What?"

Meg, despite her having brought the topic up, seemed reluctant as she volunteered the answer.

"It's Amelia. Balthazar's left."

"Pardon?"

Meg let out a small noise of irritation on the other end of the line.

"Search me, buddy. It happened a week ago. He's cleared out and taken his things. She didn't want me to tell you but... I think you should see her."

Castiel didn't answer immediately, his fest clenching at his side and fisting in his trenchcoat.

"Of course, I-...", he twisted aimlessly on the sidewalk in aggravation. As he whirled, he noted Dean's eyes tracking his movement, and quickly turned away again, dropping his pitch, "how could he... how is she?"

"Due in a month and half, and looking for a flat as soon as possible. She doesn't want to stay at his for a moment longer than she has to."

"Of course."

Meg's voice turned snide with irritation. "He's hung her out to dry. I've offered to put her up for as long as she needs, but obviously there's a ticking clock, and the baby on the way."

Castiel let a small hiss of anger escape his lips, and he heard Meg's reaction on the other end of the line: "Exactly. Supposedly, he's said he wants no part in the child, apart from paying for it. I'm worried about her."

Castiel breathed heavily through his nose, and leaned over to balance on a nearby tree. "Is she at home tonight?"

"I think so. She was boxing things up. We're going to put her things in storage on Monday, for the time being at least."

"I'll help."

"I hoped you'd say that. What about your medium though?"

Castiel paused in his pacing, and twisted to throw a glance Dean's way. Dean, having measured the timbre of conversation, was once again preoccupied with a miscellaneous detail and determinedly avoiding his gaze.

"I'll sort something."

"Do."

Meg hung up without ceremony and Castiel quickly pocketed his phone, moving back to the bus stop where Dean pretended to not notice his approach. When he turned to Castiel, however, his expression quickly dropped, and he immediately made to move from his bench.

"Cas, you alright?"

Dean stood somewhat shakily, and Castiel immediately held out a hand to stop him.

"Sit back down. I'm fine."

Dean descended slowly and Castiel sat beside him, leaning forwards and on his thighs and staring across the sidewalk.

"Not to be rude, but… it seemed like you just got some bad news."

Castiel looked towards Dean, who had his lips pressed together and his head inclined to the side.

"You don't have to talk about it, but I thought-"

"My ex-wife... her partner has left her. She's due in a month and a half."

Dean's eyes narrowed and for a moment, he considered the words.

"Due, as in…?"

"She is pregnant, yes."

Dean blinked, mouth falling open. "Oh shit." He raised his hand to rub at the back of his neck, and quickly looked away from Castiel. With a sniff, he bit his lip.

"She…ok?"

Castiel sighed and dropped his head so that he was staring at the pavement.

"I'm not sure. It has left her living situation rather uncertain."

"Is she gonna be ok?"

Castiel's jaw hung open, but he didn't offer a proper answer, aside from an aggravated shrug. Dean registered the irritation in the gesture, and met Castiel's gaze questioningly. With a huff, Castiel rubbed at the bridge of his nose and explained.

"It's just… I never liked him. And I'm furious with him now."

Dean nodded slowly, before murmuring, quite unexpectedly: "You should go see her."

Castiel's eyes flickered to Dean's.

"I will. In due course."

"No. I mean, like, now. She could probably use some support."

Dean looked away from Castiel as he spoke, even though he was obviously acutely aware of Castiel's survey of his face, and his lip twitched under the attention.

"I'm monitoring you, Dean."

Dean waved Castiel off without even a change to his expression.

"I'm fine. I can take care of myself, for tonight at least. She's more important."

Castiel's lips pressed together, but he didn't correct Dean. It would be inaccurate, and an insult to both of them.

"Someone should stay with you."

"I'll phone Bobby. Nosy bastard will want to check in anyway."

Castiel's jaw shifted and he watched Dean for a moment, before conceding that Dean would surely insist upon it.

"I'll only be a few hours. If Bobby agrees, that is."

Dean only nodded, before pushing himself off the bench, and throwing a glare at Castiel when he made to assist him.

"I'm _fine_."

Dean used Castiel's phone to call Bobby on the walk back to the house, who agreed to come by for dinner in the evening. Castiel stayed around to assist Dean prepare it, but was bouncing on his heels by the time Bobby rang the doorbell. Dean, although he seemed less energetic, was quick to let Castiel go.

"Just text me, if you wanna stay. I won't mind."

Castiel had only looked at him meaningfully in response. "I'll be back soon, Dean."

Bobby had stayed silent on the matter, and Castiel was grateful for that.

Castiel exceeded the speed limit with very little care on his way to Amelia's home, texting out a quick message to her mobile announcing his arrival which he doubted she'd read before he turned up on her dorrstep.

He didn't imagine that Amelia would appreciate the surprise, or the breaking of her confidence with Meg. Still, it felt necessary, and it would be worth Amelia's reprimand to offer her the support he knew she would be desperate for.

At the door of Balthazar's home, however, that Castiel paused with sudden worry at anticipation for the state of his ex-wife. It hadn't been so long ago that he'd held her through sleepless nights and hoarse howls after they had returned from the hospital without Claire. Whether or not he was still welcome to assist through such intimate pain was less certain.

Much had happened since that point, starting with Amelia banishing Castiel from the bedroom after a tearful and emotion-driven argument in which she accused Castiel of killing their child. The invitation had been re-extended several months after Claire's funeral, and they had attempted to move past things. But every touch between them had been robotic after that, and Amelia had scarcely been able to look him in the eye without welling up with tears. Castiel had felt filthy for even touching her, knowing in her position he could never tolerate his own presence.

When Amelia had blandly suggested they separate, he had had no disagreement, and while it had taken two months for him to set his affairs in order and find a new home, they were strangers in the same house from that point on. It was only through Meg's efforts that a friendship had been salvageable in the end. While Amelia had proclaimed her a "bitch" for interfering at first instance, the pair were far closer as a result, in a way they had never been when she had simply been Castiel's colleagues and Amelia's acquaintance.

Despite his concerns, Amelia, when she answered the door, seemed to look upon him with relief. She exhaled heavily, twisting her fingers in her cardigan and her lip trembled.

"So Meg told you?"

Castiel nodded and Amelia bit her lip, eyes trailing on the floor of her entrance hall. With a flicker of something in her expression, she stepped aside and allowed Castiel entry to her home.

She lead him easily to the lounge – in a state of utter disarray since his last visit. Castiel navigated his way through an assortment of boxes scattered throughout the living room and spread rolls of bubble wrap and tissue paper to the couch.

Amelia shuffled along it to make space for him, swiping at a series of crumpled tissues on the coffee table as though she could hide them, before conceding with a pitiful growl and pressing her head into her palms.

"Perhaps… I should make tea."

Amelia didn't bother to respond, but Castiel exited the lounge quickly anyway. In the kitchen, he set the kettle to boil, swallowing as he heard Amelia emit a few light sobs from the lounge. It took some minutes to locate the tea bags – arranged artfully into a wooden container positioned on the dining room table. Castiel selected Earl Grey for himself, and Peppermint for Amelia and filled two pristine white mugs before traipsing back to the lounge.

Amelia had retrieved a box of tissues and was wiping at her nose and face hurriedly as he arrived. Castiel seated himself beside her without comment on her state, and passed her her mug. She gave the offering a sniff, as though testing him, and smiled lightly when she recognized he had selected her favorite. She placed the mug carefully down on the table, before balling up her tissue and launching it across the room at a framed photograph on the wall of her and Balthazar posing beside a painting at her gallery.

"God, he's just.. . he's such a tosser, James. I don't know what else to say."

Castiel nodded blithely in agreement and shifted closer to Amelia as she reached for another tissue and blew her nose ungracefully, with the trust that only a former wife could have that she would not be made light of. Out of habit, her hand dropped to her swollen stomach and she rubbed there angrily.

"He said that I wanted too much responsibility from him. I mean, he's a forty-five year old fucking man. What else did he expect?"

Castiel gritted his teeth beneath the skin of his jaw and shook his head in disbelief, even though Amelia's gaze was still directed furiously towards the photograph before her. Castiel placed his own mug on the table, before letting his hands sit awkwardly at his knees – uncertain if Amelia would appreciate his initiation of physical contact, even that which was intended to be comforting..

"Mum and Dad are saying I should go back to Colorado, and live with them for a while. But I can't leave the gallery. I can't just uproot my life."

"Naturally." Castiel shifted on the couch, turning to stare at Amelia. She conceded his gaze with a small flicker of hers and smiled woefully. It tugged at Castiel's stomach to see the defeated droop of her expression.

"I'm so sorry, Amy."

Amelia looked away from him immediately, and discarded her tissue in favor of wiping at her face with her hands in aggravation.

"Just... the audacity of it. After everything that happened. How fucking _selfish_ can you get? It's childish"

Her lips twisted around her teeth as she looked up to Castiel, who meet her eyes tiredly.

"I mean, were you the exception?"

She turned back to Castiel with a set jaw, and Castiel made a point of looking away, reaching for his mug and taking a long draught. It boiled on his tongue – not yet cooled with the temperature of the room. Still, it was a better alternative than acknowledging that he, whatever Balthazar had done, would always have failed Amelia more devastatingly.

"God, what am I going to do?"

Amelia fell backwards onto the couch, running a hand through her hair – unbrushed and unwashed – and pushing it away from her face.

Castiel set his cup down again and knotted his hands between his knees.

"Meg said you would stay with her?"

Amelia sniffed and nodded.

"I'm trying to find a flat, but... God, look at me. I'm swollen up like a fucking... beached whale. How am I going to go flat hunting? I'm _waddling_."

There was a beat as she turned to Castiel, and he met her blankly. Almost simultaneously, in a long practiced behavior, they both broke grins and uttered light, disbelieving laughs. Amelia, without much concern, slid towards Castiel and dropped her head to rest against his shoulder. Castiel froze, but let her the touch. She brought her hand to shield against her eyes for a moment, carrying on in disbelief: "Fucking _fuck_. This is all so ridiculous."

She laughed against Castiel's shirt as he shifted around her slightly, raising an arm and dropping it cautiously across her shoulder. She accepted the embrace easily and relaxed into him.

"Your swearing has not improved."

Amelia grimaced and made a muffled protest into Castiel's shirt. "Takes one to know one, you fucker."

There was a pause, and Amelia sighed, before withdrawing and moving back away from Castiel. He let his hand drift off her shoulder immediately, but left it draped on the couch behind her. Amelia didn't seem to mind the proximity, leaning back into the couch cushions and rubbing at her stomach absently.

Castiel waited a moment for Amelia to offer some kind of further explanation for her intentions, but when none came he pointed towards an open box on the edge of the table – half full with an assortment of utterly random items.

"How much do you have for the baby? I don't mean to make an unkind observation, but I doubt Meg's studio apartment will have the space required."

Amelia gulped and nodded.

"I know. It's completely unsuitable."

Castiel nodded and wiped at his face.

"I can help you look, over the next week at least. I have some time off work. I can make some enquiries."

"Meg said. Are you alright?"

Castiel looked back to Amelia and nodded vigorously.

"Yes, quite." He ran a hand through his hair, and settled back into the couch. "It's just been a stressful few days. Dean has been unwell."

"Dean?"

Castiel scratched at the front of his neck before pressing his knuckles to his mouth.

"You met him at that party."

"Oh, the medium."

Castiel swallowed and shrugged, probably a beat too late. "Yes."

"You're taking time off work for that?"

Castiel nodded and sighed, withdrawing his arm from the back of the couch and wiping at his face tiredly again. He reached for his mug and cradled it at his lap, staring at his reflection in the surface absently.

"He had a heart attack, at a séance I was attending for the book. There's no one else to look after him, and... I feel a sense of obligation."

Her eyebrows raised almost to her hairline, as her eyelids dropped in a narrowed gaze. "A heart attack?"

Castiel gave a disbelieving nod. "It was very involved. I haven't been able to explain it. But, the end result is that he requires supervision for the next week or so. And he can't afford any private care."

"No insurance?"

"No. And his medical bill will already be large."

Amelia's mouth drooped in pity and she crossed her legs across from him, bringing her tissue to her nose and wiping it lightly, before dropping it to her lap and fiddling with it."You should be careful not to get too involved, James."

Castiel withdrew slightly and turned to look at the television in the lounge, blank and mildly reflective. Their silhouettes were barely visible in it. He didn't mention what he'd paid for already – even Dean wasn't entirely aware.

"I don't need a lecture."

"No. I know." Amelia's voice immediately became defensive, and cautious. "Only, I know that... that was one of the things you found difficult about practice. Remember that he defrauds people for a living."

Castiel looked to Amelia once and nodded, although there was sufficient disbelief that gave her pause for thought, and she leaned forward as he turned away again.

"Wait... what?"

Castiel ran his hand across his jaw, and stood from the couch, moving to one of the half-packed boxes and looking down at it. He changed the subject quickly, and its subject matter was enough to stifle any further questions Amelia might have had for him.

"My house is available, if you need longer than Meg would give you. The neighbors have a child of their own. They wouldn't mind the noise."

There was a dissatisfied pause on the couch behind him, before he heard Amelia shift and move behind him.

"Thanks, but that's not necessary. I can manage."

Castiel inclined his head and moved his hands to his hips.

"I know you can. I'm just saying... you don't have to. I can help."

Amelia sighed and turned, raising a hand to her forehead and pacing around to the other side of the room, kicking aside a box as she stared at the semblance of her life that remained.

"Of course you will, that's the thing. I know you always will."

She ran a weary hand down her face, as she looked back to Castiel.

"You were always so certain, weren't you? I could always count on you. And you had all that academic conviction, it was so exciting."

She pursed her lips together, and placed her teacup on the empty bookcase beside her, dropping down to sift through a box at her feet.

"And I feel like such a fool for... for thinking that that was what life was going to be like. That we could be certain things would work out."

She tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, as she re-settled the items in the box, and leaned back on her heels brushing her hands on her thighs. Castiel breathed a laugh at the recognition of the same sentiment that had plagued him so mercilessly since the séance being espoused so frankly by his ex-wife, and the way it disassembled her usually pristine exterior in a way that he had never quite seen her unravel before.

"What is it?"

Castiel shrugged and waded his way through the mess of items to sit cross legged on the floor beside Amelia and raising his hands to trace the edge of the box.

"Just that, I've been thinking the same recently."

Amelia shot a look at him, and arched an eyebrow.

"The medium. He's got you riled up, hasn't he?"

Castiel brushed at his nose and ran his tongue over his teeth beneath his lips. "I suppose. He's an academic challenge. And I don't... I don't think I can decode him."

She breathed out slowly, and dropped her hands to cradle around her belly.

"And here I thought I was finally a grown up. And that I knew what I was doing."

She sniggered to herself as she ran her hands in light circles across her stomach. Castiel dropped his gaze to follow the movement. In the reminiscent aspect of it, he almost reached out and held his hands around Amelia's. She slowly turned to look at him, clearly thinking the same, and their eyes met with open windows to the sadness that still remained on either side since that last occasion. Amelia's mouth twitched in a tearful smile and she reached out and grabbed Castiel's wrist, pulling his hand close and cradling it around her swollen belly. With a hushed whisper, she said: "wait, he's moving."

There was a pause and then, as though he knew they were waiting, the infant inside her kicked forwards and Castiel felt the press of the force of the foot against his hand. He almost recoiled from the shock of it, and the sudden harrowing sense that he was breaching a sanctuary. But Amelia held firm, and there was no intimacy in her gaze as she turned to him and grinned wide, adjusting his hand in anticipation of the next kick. When it came, she giggled slightly, and Castiel's face burst into a wide grin that Amelia's eyes tracked almost ravenously. With a happy sob, she leaned closer to Castiel and pressed their arms together, moving her neck forwards to coo to her belly: "Oh my baby. My little darling."

When the child eventually stopped moving, she pulled away from Castiel, and her eyes were shining. He knew his own were too, for his throat was swollen with the effort of retaining them.

"I'm so scared, James. With this baby. I love him so much, and I'm so afraid I'll hurt him. I can't... I can't forgive myself for..."

Castiel shushed her by leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. His voice was gravelly, not with intimacy, but with earnest sincerity as he traced a hand down her cheek and met her in the eyes.

"You will not fail this child, Amy. I know you won't. You never failed Claire either. This little boy, he'll be lucky to have you."

"What if I can't do it alone?"

"You won't give yourself that option. I know you. I know what kind of mother you are. This child is the luckiest of children."

She squeezed her hands around her stomach, and her eyes filled with tears as she hugged it to herself – as though she could embrace her child within her. "I can't wait to meet him."

She sniffed lightly again, the tears from earlier in the evening returning, only this time purifying her of cruel thoughts of Balthazar or his betrayal.

"It's... I feel like, the only time I truly know who I am, is when I think of him and... Claire. I love him so much." It struck at Castiel's gut to hear those words, but he pulled Amelia tight against his shoulder and rested his hand on top of hers at her stomach. "You'll get through this, I promise."

There was no doubt in his mind that she would as she farewelled him at her door past eleven, after he had packed and taped her boxes, and carried them all to the corridor and arranged them for the delivery. Amelia was strong – that was why he had loved her in the first place – vivacious and ingenious. And while she had needed him that evening, and a reassurance, he knew that there was no general requirement on her part for more. Her child would be treasured beyond measure and afforded every happiness. Even when Amelia felt she was searching for her identity, Castiel knew it. He'd known it the moment he saw her hold Claire in her arms for the first time, and a new door opened behind her eyes that had never been let open for anyone else – even him. Above all, and beneath everything, she was a mother.

And while the thought struck him with happiness, that Amelia would find herself after Claire, with this son and the life they would force together, the crevasse in his own chest seemed like a vacuum beneath his skin as he looked upon Amelia's home the last time before driving away. Claire was his constant meaning and his true security. Without her, he had lost everything and thrown himself into his work to fill the void. Without Balathazar... Castiel wasn't sure what Amelia wanted him to be to her child. Feeling him kick against his hand – that had been an important moment. But it wasn't the same. He and Amelia could no longer love each other. And whatever support he could – he _would _– provide her, both out of repentance for Claire and out of respect for Amy, it wasn't the same either.

Even more, the work was gone. Dean had seen to that. Academic future aside, conviction was absent. What did he believe? Dean had shattered whatever it was, but what was left in the petrified dust? Where to from here?

And Castiel was without more than ever – lost in the way that Amelia imagined herself to be, but without hope of reinvention.

The thought made his hands tremor on the drive back to Dean's, and his heart pound on each step up the stairwell to Dean's home. But Dean greeted him at the door with a smile, and lead him to the lounge where Bobby waited for them both, it abated. When Castiel sat down, Dean bustled to the kitchen and pulled a plate from the fridge, depositing in the microwave and returning a few minutes later with a soggy set of leftovers from the meal Dean and Bobby had shared.

"It's an... Autumn salad. Or something. I don't know. But... I thought it might be your kind of thing."

Dean watched nervously as Castiel graciously took the meal, and thanked him for providing the dinner he had forgotten to eat. When Castiel took his first bite, and praised the flavours, Dean flushed, and even though Bobby turned to stare at him and Castiel turned to look at the television, Dean didn't stop smiling for the duration of the evening. And somehow that was sufficient reassurance for the nervous sweat of Castiel's hands to cease and the gash in his chest to dull for the evening.

...

Bobby left around 1am with a grumble. Castiel escorted him out into the street and to his door, offering light from the flashlight application on his phone when Bobby fumbled with his keys in the darkness. One Bobby had wrenched his door open, he turned towards Castiel with a question on his lips and a suspicious expression.

"He says he's alright, but is he?"

Castiel gave a small glance back to the house, still lit in the lounge, and shook his head.

"I wish I knew."

"You can't tell?"

Castiel pursed his lips avoided Bobby's gaze.

"I'm doing my best."

Bobby's sigh was all that was needed to express his disdain with that statement, and he didn't bother to say goodbye to Castiel as he slid into his car, or thank him when Castiel shut the door behind him. He did, however, offer a wave and a disingenuous smile in the direction of the front door, where Castiel supposed Dean had ambled to offer his own goodbye. That was confirmed when he turned away, and saw Dean leaning against the doorframe, hands stuffed in his pockets, and silhouetted against the dull light of the entry hall.

Castiel made his way back up the stairwell slowly, and Dean stepped aside to allow his entrance, murmuring: "All right, Cas?"

"Yes."

Dean paused momentarily, but he didn't offer comment, instead turning to attend to his intricate locking system. When he was done, Dean lead Castiel back to the lounge and offered him a guilty look as an explanation for the fact his pillows and blanket had been bundled in the solitary armchair to make a space for Bobby to sit. Dean went to them immediately, and commenced unwinding them.

"Sorry for messing up your bed."

"It's your home."

"Yeah, but-" Dean shrugged, and looked away, scuffing his foot across his raggedy carpet.

"How was your ex?"

"Distressed... but I think she will be fine. She needed reassurance."

The corner of Dean's mouth twitched in a small smile, and he surveyed Castiel's face. "It's nice that you two are... that you're friends. Most people don't manage it, you know."

Castiel nodded and lowered himself to the couch, while Dean stood awkwardly above him, clearly unsure of whether the evening was due to end, or if he ought to address Castiel further in the interim.

"It was a concerted effort on both our parts. And not without difficulty."

"You ever miss her?"

The question was so frank that it took Castiel a moment to recover from it, and Dean blinked several times before he stepped backwards in embarrassment. "Sorry, that was really rude."

"No. I..." Castiel searched for the right words. "I miss her, yes. A great deal. But what he had could not be recovered once we lost Claire. She'll never be able to forgive me, and I would never deserve her after what happened."

"You still love her?"

Dean bit his lip as he searched Castiel's face, seemingly knowing he was pushing his luck with the question, but doing so anyway – brazenly in the descended darkness of the morning and in their mental tiredness from the day's efforts.

"I do, as my ex-wife, but... I no longer love her the way I used to."

Dean nodded once, abruptly, and stepped forwards to deposit the bundle of blankets on the couch.

"Well, I'll... you should get to bed. It's been a long day for you. I'll see you in the morning."

Castiel leaned back against the pillows, and pulled his blankets forward, uncrumpling them and stretching them out across the couch. "Good night, Dean."

Dean watched him for a moment, before he started to his room with a "Right. Night."

As he clambered up the stairs, Castiel changed in the lounge, and laid himself out on the couch, nestling into the cushions in an effort to find the right position amongst the uncomfortable gaps in the structure. When he was finally settled, and the thing had stopped squeaking, his eyes drifted to the ceiling above him, where Dean was shifting restlessly in his own bed too. After a while, it seemed he rose, and commenced pacing, for Castiel heard the squeak of floorboards back and forth above him. They pounded out a rhythm, almost perfectly syncopated in its repetitions.

While the sound might have been irritating in any other circumstance, its evenness lolled Castiel to sleep, and he did not recall in the morning if the sound had ceased before he fell asleep or what time it had been. When he awoke, Dean was already up and spooning himself a serving of the previous day's fruit salad, and picking out the banana pieces (with guilty interim looks at Castiel, whose eyes were still half closed).

Dean sat at the dining table and ate silently, and his face was heavy and weary as he turned between the pages of the same newspaper as the day before. His eyes scarcely seemed to focus on anything as he scanned the pages mindlessly, and his mouth stayed fixed in a perpetual frown as he spooned each piece of fruit into his mouth and chewed carefully.

When Castiel shifted, however, he manufactured a new expression with almost mechanical efficiency, and by the time Castiel had padded into the kitchen and retrieved himself a bowl, Dean was grinning brightly and eyes shone with vigor.

"Mornin' Cas. How'd you sleep?"

Castiel's voice was gravel and sandpaper first thing in the morning, and he eked out a response through the rumble at his chest that followed sleep.

"Well. You?"

Dean raised his eyebrows playfully and grinned, so that his bright even white teeth were bared for Castiel. "Like a baby. Must be all this healthy food."

He picked a grape from his fruit salad and popped it in his mouth, grinning as he chewed and his mouth fell slightly open. Castiel turned slowly back to his breakfast bowl and commenced his serving, and eyed Dean carefully as he sat down opposite him. Dean, however, was implacable, and powered through his breakfast meal without a flicker of his previous expression.

For the duration of the day, Castiel watched him carefully, for a sign of a crack, but found none. Dean left him to his work in the early part of the day, taking a few phone calls from aggrieved families and arranging appointments for in a few weeks who had left voicemail messages while he had been in hospital. In the afternoon, when Castiel set up his laptop to conduct a Skype lecture with an undergraduate class and graduate seminar, Dean sat on the couch behind him and smiled lightly even as Castiel rattled through his standard form material – the substance of which spoke against Dean's work. When they ate dinner, Dean only scowled at the volume of vegetables on his plate, but otherwise made light easy chatter. And his expression was implacable when he and Castiel sat back and watched the news until late in the evening.

He shuffled off to his bedroom without so much as a crack in the veneer, but as Castiel lay back down to sleep, his eyes tracked the sound of Dean's footsteps above him until at least 2am, before sleep overwhelmed him.


	11. Oh Once!

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

It took three days for Castiel to overcome whatever caution had held him back from raising Dean's sleeplessness with him. While words had been the intention, the conversation never seemed to arise naturally. While he was showing Dean how to make porridge the next morning, Dean was far too falsely cheery for Castiel to have the heart to break the spell. And after the next of Castiel's Skype lectures with his class, Dean was kind enough not to mention Castiel's denigration of his profession –and that politeness was enough to put Castiel off broaching the topic. Psychology practice, he told himself, supported the failure to do so. Dean had to be ready to breach the topic himself if there was to be any resolution to it. And much as Castiel and Dean both seemed to have mutually abandoned the notion that Castiel was still with him in a professional capacity, faring by the rules seemed to be the best course of action.

But two more nights in, matters changed, when at 3am Castiel awoke to the sound of a shout from the upstairs bedroom. He might have thought he had imagined in it another circumstance, for it was over so quickly and the room above went completely silent. However, it was enough of an excuse to pull on some slippers and take the stairs two at a time.

There were only three doors at the top of the staircase. One was a bathroom, and its door was open across from Castiel. The other two were on separate ends of the corridor and from previous nights watching the ceiling, Castiel knew which direction would lead him to Dean's room. Castiel tentatively knocked at the shut door, and he heard Dean sniff lightly on the other end.

"Dean?"

"Cas?" Dean's question was far more urgent, and while Castiel's was a whisper his had full force of speaking behind it, and it rumbled in the room beyond with a light quiver as its undercurrent.

Castiel slid the door open slowly, and it ached on its hinges. Dean was sitting on is bed, knees raised, leaning over them and rubbing the back of his neck. He was shirtless, although clothed in a ratty pair of sweatpants to sleep in. There was a swell of sweat running across his back was it was bared to the moonlight and the muscles were heaving slightly as he attempted to control some upset breathing.

"I heard you shout."

Dean sighed once and let his head hang low between his knees. The stretch was slow and exhausted. "Sorry Cas. Just a nightmare."

It seemed an absurd story to tell given the nature of why they were both there in the first place, but Dean's expression was resolute as he raised his eyes to Castiel's. "I'm really sorry for waking you up."

"It's no problem. I was just worried."

"Mmm."

Dean nodded quickly and rubbed more heavily at the back of his neck. Castiel moved slightly closer across the room, but halted when the floor creaked beneath him and he felt Dean stiffen.

"Are you going to be able to sleep now?"

"...Yeah. Yeah I will."

Dean shifted on his bed, and turned his gaze to the side of the bed. "Are you?"

Castiel looked to the alarm at the side of Dean's bed.

_3.45am_.

"Possibly not, at this stage."

Had Dean truly thought he could sleep, he might have been quicker to apologize. Instead he only nodded and sighed, and moved across his bed, leaving an obvious space for Castiel. Castiel perched himself on its edge, without a thought, and let one thigh fall to the side to anchor him as he turned and watched Dean.

"Your nightmare. Is it related to the séance?"

Dean paused for a moment, and his answer was shaky. "No, uh, I don't... I don't remember them once they wake me up."

"Are you afraid to sleep as a result?"

Dean shook his head quickly, but kept his gaze away from Castiel's. "No. I had them growing up a lot as a kid. So I'm kinda used to it."

Dean swallowed stickily and wiped at the inside of his eyes, dragging his fingers across the tops of his cheeks when he was done. "I usually don't make... I don't wake up like that. I think that was a one off."

Castiel didn't point out the fact that Dean's bed was still fairly well made, and he clearly had done absolutely no sleeping in it at all. Instead, he simply shifted atop its surface.

"I had a lot of nightmares after Claire died, to the point where I was a veritable insomniac."

Castiel raised his own hand and ran it through his hair – releasing uncomfortable tufts that had tangled together while he had slept downstairs.

"It was because... sleeping reminded me of dying. And I was too fixated on the thought of how it would feel to be alone. To fall so soundlessly into oblivion."

He heard Dean swallow across the room, audibly and achingly.

"I told myself that it was practice. If my daughter could do it then I ought to be able to as well. But..."

He shrugged his shoulders lightly and let them sag to hang heavily to weigh on the twisted and stretched seams of his T-shirt that was not made to hold a posture so defeated. Castiel stared at the unwrinkled sheets as Dean adjusted atop the bed and crawled slowly forwards. As Dean seated himself and sat straighter, his pajamaed knee fell to touch Castiel's, and Castiel found he didn't mind.

"When I sleep, it gets too dark. And my mind throws tricks at me."

"What do you mean?"

"Memories," Dean murmured forlornly, "or... expectations. It's like the worst part of myself is let out."

Castiel peeled his lips apart, and in the heady silence of the room, that slight separation was still audible, in a light smack. Dean cut across him first though, with a defeated tone: "When I'm awake, and I feel like I'm going insane, people step in. You know? The drugs and all of that. They stop you from hurting yourself."

Dean cleared his throat lightly, and constrained within the effort was a soft, suppressed cry, wailing silently after so long unattended.

"But when you're asleep, it's just you. And no one to help. I know that I've been helpless all along, but with people around. And spirits, it feels like it. I guess I'm afraid of being alone."

Castiel huffed out a quick breath, that might have been a laugh if it weren't so dark.

"I would have told you that you were, a month ago."

"And now?"

Castiel twisted his head, shaking it in slow soft arcs across his neck and reveling in the way his spine moved to accommodate the strange movement.

"Now I think you're human, in an extraordinary circumstance. And you've spent a lot of time alone. I'm not surprised you're tired of it."

There was a hint of a laugh behind Dean's voice. "Never thought I'd hear you say that, Cas."

Castiel shifted on the bed slightly, and his knee brushed against Dean's minutely. Dean scarcely seemed bothered by the contact, and he lay back, in the centre of the bed this time, and stared up at the ceiling. The movement stretched the skin at his middle so it lay taut across his chest, rising and falling with each soft sigh as he twisted into a comfortable position.

"Never thought I'd see you in your pjs either."

Castiel snorted a small laugh, and Dean stretched his back contentedly, letting his chest rise to the ceiling slightly with a graceful arch of his back and pleased sigh. He settled back, lungs exhaling deeply as if he were clearing himself of whatever had occupied him for the previous hours.

"You know, when I met you, I thought you were cold and stuffy."

Castiel dropped his head and let it rest on the tips of his fingers, murmuring: "That's not the first time I've been accused of that."

Dean rolled over slightly, looking up at Castiel unabashedly and without reservation.

"You know they're wrong though?"

Castiel's eyes followed Dean as he moved closer, watching the twist of his skin as he repositioned himself, and stared up casually. It ought to have been too intimate – Dean's position was too leisurely, too casual, too _known _even though Castiel was still a stranger to him. If Dean noticed the examination, he said nothing, only blinking as he watched Castiel in the semi-darkness.

Castiel repositioned his leg beneath him, and let a small sound from his throat as the position brought relaxation, before he answered: "Not really."

Dean blinked slowly, in a way that was almost sarcastic, but for the deep sincerity of his tone and the way his mouth twisted into a smile as he pronounced his answer.

"You're wrong."

Castiel had little else to do but to smile once at Dean, whose chin twitched forward as if he would say something. Whatever it was, however, was lost to his own self-censoring, and he rolled back onto his back, breathing heavily, and twisting so his legs fell to the side. His exhale was even longer than the first, and spoke to an approaching relaxation which marked the physical release – Dean was falling asleep, quickly, in a sudden spot of respite his body was scrambling to take advantage of.

Castiel waited it out, afraid that his movement might startle Dean, or give too much cause to think and to attract a proper rest. The task was worth it, when only a few minutes later, Dean's breaths turned to light snores, and he turned and nestled his head into the pillow, shifting his hips and legs in slow rolls across the cover of the bed until he found a comfortable position half on his stomach and half on his side.

It was endearing, how contorted his face was – mouth pressed open with the force of his weight against his cheek and puckered like a duck bill at the edges. Dean's left eyelid was scrunched tightly against the fabric of the pillow, but the other flickered slightly as his brain sent the final shutdown messages to put him in REM.

Castiel excused himself with a soft footfall and made his way downstairs. The couch was cold from where he had left it, and it took a long time to reposition himself sufficiently to achieve the comfort so hard fought for earlier in the evening. But slowly, beneath the blanket, he warmed and with silence from the upstairs room, it was not long at all before he too was lost to the sweet oblivion of sleep.

...

Dean slept twelve hours in total. Castiel checked on him around 9am, when he failed to materialize in the kitchen. His snores were deeper in the heavier stages of sleep, and in the time Castiel checked on him, he snored deeply enough to cause himself to cough twice. Once he'd sourced the noise, Castiel heard it from all ends of the house. The echo of the sound gave him reassurance as he left Dean unattended for the greater part of the day.

When Dean eventually made his way downstairs, he almost fell, rubbing bleary eyes three times over, and combing frantically at short bristled hair that had somehow, despite its limited capacity, still managed to tangle itself in parts. Dean's chin was rougher, and made a sound when he scraped his fingers across it, staring into the fridge and searching for the ideal dinnertime meal.

"Shit Cas, I haven't slept that well in years."

Castiel smiled from behind his laptop, where he was attending to a peer review of Meg's latest chapter – scarcely marked up in relation to the usual mess of red he treated his students to.

"I'm glad to hear it."

"Must have been your lullabies last night. I feel fucking great."

Dean's grin was playful when he looked over at Castiel and threw him a wink. "Seriously, thanks."

Castiel was well aware he had done nothing to garner the praise. The likely explanation was that his presence had assuaged Dean's fear of sleeping alone for long enough that his body had done the rest. Even a few days without sleep was enough to provoke such an exorbitant effort. And Castiel did not doubt that the past few days had only been the beginning of Dean's failures with regard to rest.

But Dean seemed content to attribute the success to Castiel alone, and went about the remainder of the day (as few hours left of it as there were) repaying Castiel for the "favor". Generally, that took the form of Dean shadowing Castiel and moving to assist whatever task he thought he might be of use in. Preparing dinner, cleaning the dishes, and providing him with company at every spare moment that he might have been left unattended, and in doubt of Dean's gratefulness.

As they settled in front of Dean's small discolored television, Dean threw a look at Castiel that ended up holding for almost the duration of Castiel's dinner, while Dean's remained untouched. Castiel, while aware of the gaze, did nothing to dispel it, pleased to see Dean otherwise at ease. Dean could not have ignored the fact that Castiel was aware of his staring, but as long as he was not physically caught out, he seemed happy to continue it, until Castiel muttered mildly: "Your dinner will get cold."

Despite Dean's long sleep, he picked up Castiel's yawns at around 10.45pm, and shuffled off to bed. However, the pacing started only half an hour later, and Castiel, despite his own tiredness of having been awake with Dean the night before, traipsed up the stairs and dropped three light knocks on the door, even though he knew the attempts at silence were unnecessary.

"Cas?"

Castiel shuffled into the room and leaned against the doorframe. Dean was pressed against the frame of his window, arms crossed and staring out onto the empty street.

"Will it help if I wait while you fall asleep?"

The bluntness of the phrase was masked by its whisper, and while Dean seemed somewhat surprised by the straightforwardness of it, he nodded minutely before crossing his room and sitting on his bed, curling around his knees and looking across at Castiel.

"Are you sure you don't mind?"

Castiel only shrugged in response and ambled silently to sit at the edge of Dean's bed. The audacity of the placement shocked even himself for a while, but Dean only gave a small sigh of contentment and lay backwards against the pillows, wrapping his legs in his sheet and twisting it between them. He left his chest uncovered, in all except his grey tshirt, and one his legs exposed above the blankets as he rolled to the side to face Castiel.

"Thanks for not being weird about it."

"It's no problem."

Dean huffed into his pillow and closed his eyes. The position didn't suit him, however, and within a minute he had peeled them open to watch Castiel, who was staring at the end of the room and surveying a haphazard and sparse collection of books in a tattered looking bookcase that doubled as a chest of drawers, judging by the way Dean's clothing was shoved haphazardly into it.

"Most guys would run a mile to avoid... they wouldn't even come in a gay guy's room. Let alone sit on his bed."

Castiel breathed out a laugh. "We've already shared a bed once, Dean. And I'm an adult. Not some posturing frat boy."

"You were embarrassed about that."

Castiel pursed his lips quickly, and looked down to Dean. "I felt rude. And I worried it was unwelcome given it was your hospital bed and you are recovering from a heart attack."

Dean's eyes met his in a quick flash, and Dean licked his lips hurriedly.

"It definitely wasn't."

Castiel felt a muscle at his jaw twitch and he looked away. "I'm sorry if I made you feel my embarrassment. I trust you, Dean. And I'm not so egoistic so as to presume that your occasional attraction towards men would be directed at me."

Dean's face beamed even under the moonlight, and he turned his face into the pillow momentarily to smother a smile, before murmuring into it. "I told you not to be hard on yourself, Cas."

"I'm not."

Dean laughed into the pillow and twisted, so that his legs were wrapped further around the sheets and his pelvis was pressed into the mattress. Castiel's eyes traced the movement, down Dean's body to where his toes curled with amusement, before Dean turned his head slightly, so that his left eye was just visible above the pillow's shape. He shook his head into it and then sighed.

"You know, I miss having someone here with me. Not like... not like sex. I mean, that was great. But just... it was quieter when Aaron would stay..."

"The spirits?"

"Yeah." Dean shuffled into the blankets and adjusted his hips so that he lay on his side again. "I mean, someone else being here doesn't mean they'll stay away, but... I'm less scared, I guess, when I know there's someone there."

Castiel raised his eyes and let them trail once around the room. "Is there anyone here now?"

Dean shook his head without even looking around. "No... it's always quiet when you're around. Apart from Claire. You're... kinda like a sanctuary, I guess. Even when you thought I was a liar."

Castiel's mouth twitched in a smile, and he stretched forward, popping out a knot in his back before moving to the end of the bed and seating himself beside Dean's feet.

"I'm glad to help."

Dean breathed out through a smile, and his eyelids drooped slightly. His left hand twisted with the edge of the pillow as he murmured softly: "You really do."

"Why do you think that is?"

Dean's eyes flickered upwards to meet Castiel's and he cocked an eyebrow. "What?"

"That things are quieter, when I'm here. Because I'm a skeptic?"

"You're not anymore."

"No, you're right."

Dean shrugged. "It's still quiet, even now."

"Was there someone here before I came in?"

Dean glowered and burrowed his face into the pillow. The rejection of the question was clear and Castiel quickly changed tact, happy to let Dean retain his secret for the time being.

"Do you have a theory?"

"On why they're not around?" Dean's answer was muffled into his pillow, and almost indiscernible, but for the otherwise heavy silence of the room.

"Yes."

Dean grumbled as he rolled over, properly, this time, and looked at the ceiling, before twisting his eyes towards Castiel's.

"I think it's a focus thing. They can't get through, because I'm too focused elsewhere."

"With what?"

Dean looked away quickly and pinched the skin of his forehead above the pinch of his nose.

"I don't know. You, I guess? At first, because I thought you were a giant bag of dicks and you kinda riled me up. And then because I thought you might actually be able to help, 'cause you're smart."

Castiel felt his breath go heavier as he looked towards Dean. Acutely aware of the increase, he tried to control it, but Dean seemed to sense the response, for his eyes shifted minutely towards Castiel, even as he determinedly looked away.

"And now, I guess, because you're my friend. At least, well, I think we're friends. If you do."

"I do."

Castiel couldn't point to why his voice seemed to have raised a register, but it seemed to fit with the nervousness pooling in his stomach. That feeling abated softly when Dean grinned at the ceiling, and turned to look at Castiel, eyes and face open.

"That's... that's great ." He blinked twice, eyes tracing Castiel's face, before murmuring: "How about you?"

"How about me what?"

Dean's lips puckered, and in the moonlight there was a slight sheen across them.

"Do you miss it? After you were married? Having someone there?"

Castiel looked down quickly, and brought his hands to his lap, twisting his fingers together.

"Of course. Of course I do."

"The sex?"

Castiel gave a soft laugh, and Dean chuckled.

"Yes, but... I'm like you, I suppose. I miss having that... bastion, I suppose, might be the right word. That reliable body of comfort. Like you said, that feeling of having another there to watch over you while..."

He trailed off, eyes meeting Dean's. Dean's face had gone pale and he was surveying Castiel carefully.

"Go on."

Castiel shifted on the bed and turned away from Dean slightly, bringing a hand to his hair and letting it run through it.

"I miss the care of a partner. And the validation of knowing that most intricate part of someone. So much of interaction is so polished and regimented. Seeing another person's fragility so clearly... I _knew _in my gut I wasn't alone in the universe, regardless of a God or not."

He looked to Dean, and the way his face remained open, mouth firmly sealed, and felt the expulsion of words he had never dared utter leave his mouth without force or intention.

"Those moments... at night. When you wake up, and you realize... that one day your body will shut down and your consciousness will dissolve and even your _memory _will cease to be. At least, that was what I thought, but..."

He gave a sharp breath and felt the sudden pound of his heart at his chest.

"When I was young those moments would propel me from my bed and I would find myself halfway down the corridor, hand over my mouth, thinking I was going to be sick and..."

He raised a hand to cover his eyes and knead and the furrowing skin of his forehead.

"It felt like my mind was trying to run away from my body and ceased to be constrained by it. And I was hitting walls of bone and meat. I'd have torn myself apart if it let me escape."

A wave of nausea hit so hard that he burped up an acrid air. Dean only shifted next to him, and reached to lay a soft hand against Castiel's thigh. It rested there tiredly, and without anticipation, and at once the quaking at Castiel's gut calmed.

"When I had... when I had Amy, and thoughts came... having her beside me kept me there. And I felt as though, no matter what I had to lose, knowing she had it to lose too... it made more sense somehow. All of it. Even when it all went dark, I wouldn't have been alone. Because her care would be with me, even if her body wasn't."

Castiel attempted a breath, but only managed a stuttered one, that pulsed into his lungs in bursts when they weren't constricted with a rising panic.

Dean's hand trailed up Castiel's leg and made its way to his waist. The path it took would have been loaded, in any other circumstance, but Dean did it with such care that it could not be misconstrued. With a soft nudge of intention he pulled Castiel forwards and down onto the bed. It was weakness from the admission that made Castiel go, if nothing else, and he crumpled slowly onto the soft reassuring base of stuffed material. Dean didn't hesitate to wind the arm further around his waist and pull him close, moving Castiel's head to his tshirt-ed shoulder and sighing as his body relaxed around the position.

What might have been too foreign and too bold was not, as Castiel's heart pounded out the rhythm of terror. The reassuring slowness of Dean's own bodily percussion was a comforting distraction, and without thinking he nestled in closer to sound out the sensation of his own. Dean's heart was steady, and his skin even a little cold. As Castiel acquiesced to the touch, he felt Dean's legs move and their ankles entwined.

"You're not alone. I promise you're not."

Dean pulled Castiel closer before he had a chance to answer, and Castiel felt his own hand snake around Dean's waist and feel out the muscles in his back, his shoulder blades, seeking for a point of mercy to hold onto. There was no way in, like his soul seemed to hope, and he settled for a frantic scrunch of the material of Dean's T-shirt. His breaths were echoed back to him quickly in such close proximity to Dean, but Dean merely moved his hand to Castiel's upper back and traced a soothing touch there.

"Your mind is gonna pull the shields down on the panic in a minute, Cas. Just wait it out."

Castiel huffed out a relieved breath and nodded and let Dean continue his tracing, until his brain stepped in with the endorphic release, and he felt his body suddenly forget what had plagued him a moment earlier.

Dean adjusted slightly, so that, while their bodies were aligned, although he was careful to keep the touch safe. His pelvis and hips were angled precisely away from Castiel's and his hand stayed determinedly at the safest part of Castiel's back. When Castiel adjusted the position of his head, Dean was careful to mirror the movement, so at no point they came too close to breathing the same air, or smelling the skin of one another in such proximity.

"Thank you."

"Just go to sleep, Cas. You can trust me, alright? I won't do anything. This is just… I'm happy to be your body of comfort, kay?"

Castiel's next exhale was one of gargantuan relief, and he felt his body fall into its position around Dean's, thrumming slowly and steadily with the same lazy energy. Even his vision seemed to blur slightly in the face of the release, and Dean murmured encouragingly.

"That's good. That's it."

Castiel fell asleep before he could consider more, and aside from the usual momentary waking to adjust sleeping position in the night, he slept comfortably. In each slight bout of consciousness, he felt the overwhelming relief of a body next to his own – a hinge on reality. And so, in sleep, he was out of fear.

...

Castiel awoke alone in Dean's bed, which provoked a mixture of relief and worry. The sheets had been raised around him in the night and he was comfortably entwined in their hold. Enough to notice that, if Dean had slept beside him (as he seemed to remember he had ) he had done so largely uncovered to the elements. It was not an icy morning, for the time of year, but it was cold enough that Castiel felt a twinge of guilt at his throat as he stretched and heaved himself slowly from his comfortable position to sit up in the bed.

Downstairs, Dean wasn't trying too hard to cover the sound of his cooking breakfast. In fairness, as Castiel glanced at the clock, it was 9.30am and certainly past the time for sleep. He stretched once, pushing his chest forward, and popping a few gas pockets from his spine, before swinging his legs to the side of the bed.

There he paused, in consideration, and perhaps in regret.

He remembered the night previously. Dean's careful assurance of trust, and the comfortable hold of his arms. He also remembered his fumbling confession and poor enunciation of inhuman terror that was better kept silent for convenience.

Dean hadn't been afraid of that, but Castiel was afraid of having spoken.

It was true, that Dean had been cautious to make sure his meaning was not misunderstood. Castiel, in existential crisis, was not to be trifled with. There was human understanding in what had happened. Nothing more. But perhaps human understanding was worse. If it had been what it might have seemed to outward appearances – a physical experience – it might have been readily disregarded.

But it was superficial to focus on the fact that it had occurred with Dean's arm around his waist and puffs of his breath into Castiel's hair. It wasn't about the touching – that didn't need to happen again. But it was about more. Dean had undone Castiel's belief system, and now he was at sea. Meg's warning rung in his ears: _don't get attached__**.**_

Truth or untruth, Dean was ill. And he could not bear the force of Castiel's burden as well as his own.

Downstairs, Dean was ignorant of any such compunction, and he propelled Castiel into action by calling loudly up the stairs: "Cas, get up!"

Castiel ambled slowly towards the stairwell, and found Dean waiting at the base, tongs in hand.

"Up and at 'em?"

Dean's face was bright and alight, and there was something stunning in it to Castiel's drowsy state. Castiel focused on it quickly, trying to discern between the defeated and terrified man he had been acquainted with the night before, but found it hard to make the connection. He'd talked of mental collapse the night before, and now Dean was cooking breakfast.

Dean stared at him for a moment, before muttering: "Not much of a morning guy are you?" before turning and making his way back down the stairs, calling over his shoulder: "I've got some bacon that's about to go off. I may not be able to eat it, but you can!"

Castiel shuffled down the stairs slowly, and when he entered the kitchen, rubbing his eyes, Dean postured against the kitchen counter.

"Mornin' sweetheart, I made you breakfast."

Dean laughed brightly at his own joke and turned back to his cooking. Castiel moved robotically to the table, staring determinedly but blindly at the paper in front of him, until Dean came to his side and deposited a plate with six strips of bacon and four slices of freshly buttered toast.

"There was a lot left. And it has to be eaten today. Dig in. I want to _see _the enjoyment on your face."

...

Dean wanted to take another walk in the afternoon, and Castiel followed him on a much longer route than the days previously. Dean lead them to a small park around ten minutes' away from his home, where aside from a solitary dog owner, who threw a ball over and over for a small Jack Russell, they were the sole visitors. Dean took a break, perching on the children's swings and pushing himself back and forth on his heels, while watching the dog rush back and forth, frothing at the mouth with enthusiasm.

The evening previously remained un-discussed, and un-worrisome, at least to Dean, who merely sighed and stared for minutes that passed in awkward aches for Castiel.

"You sure you're alright, Cas?"

Castiel wiped at his nose quickly and met Dean's eyes. "Of course I am."

"You've been a bit off this morning."

"Have I?"

Dean's expression darkened as he watched Castiel's features for a betrayal of his falsity. Castiel's psychologist's veneer was well-practiced though, and as he sent up the shutters, Dean had little choice but to concede. However, he seemed happy to rely on intuition regardless, and stared longer and harder: "You don't need to feel embarrassed. About last night. I get it."

Castiel's brow shot up and he looked away back down to the ground, hands twitching at his lap.

"Look, we don't have to talk about it. I just wanted to say. No worries."

Dean let his heels into the ground, and swung himself back and forth. The swing, designed for a child around one eighth of Dean's weight, creaked with the effort of holding him, but he paid it no mind, staring outwards vaguely.

"So... how was your ex-wife? Is she going to be ok, do you think?"

Castiel squeezed his lips together and turned his attention to the wooden platform beside him, running his fingers up and down the grooves carved there for grip.

"I believe so. Once she can sort out a place to live, she will manage. She's very resilient."

"Has she got anyone to help? With her baby?"

Dean blinked as Castiel turned to look at him, but kept his gaze firmly ahead, watching the Jack Russell determinedly.

"Friends. Her parents may come and assist. It all depends on her living situation."

"And you?"

"Pardon?"

"She has you too right?"

Castiel nodded quickly and looked back to the grooves in time for Dean's own attention to turn towards him. There was some kind of expectation in the air – though it was hard to name, though its symptom, being the twist in Castiel's stomach, was clear.

"Of course. But Amy is very independent. I won't intrude."

"How long were you married?" Dean kept his voice plainly curious, even as his swinging arcs slowed and his fingers moved to grip the chains suspending him tightly.

"Five years, and together for four before that. She became pregnant on our honeymoon."

"That's a long time to be with someone."

"It was surprisingly easy."

Dean smiled lightly and nodded, starting smaller movements upon the swing again. Castiel surveyed him quickly while his attention was otherwise occupied – noting the lines of crows' feet emerging at his eyes. Dean was young – not even thirty – but he looked older. Not just on the surface, or in his generalized weariness. But even more in the energy around him – tired, disillusioned and regretful, as if all the opportunities of his life had already passed him by.

"Would you marry again?"

Castiel didn't answer, fingers moving from the grooves of the platform to twist and themselves.

"Perhaps, but it is certainly not something I have given much thought to."

He heard the creak of Dean's swing again and looked up to see he had stopped in his movements, and was staring at Castiel with wide eyes.

"Would you get married, Dean?"

With a sigh Dean stood and stretched to the sky, exhaling as his muscles released.

"Shall we get going? It's a bit cold, sitting out here like this."

Castiel stood quickly and buried his hands in his trenchcoat pockets, and lumbered after Dean pointlessly as Dean quickly crossed the grass of the park without waiting for Castiel's answer, and made his way to the sidewalk. They walked side by side, shoulder to shoulder, in relative silence on the way home. Even in the abyss of conversation, Dean was comfortable and bright. It was easy to forget his feeling of betrayal that morning when Dean turned to Castiel and grinned, and looked at him with such ease and admiration. It was easier to bathe in it, and enjoy it, despite the lack of familiarity. Whatever that meant, it could be felt later. The imperative at the time was to enjoy what was offered, before it was taken away. And so Castiel did, happily and enduringly, until they made their way up Dean's steps, and he felt the taste of his own sourness on the doorstep.

Dean noticed Castiel's shift in mood and left him to it, and Castiel spent the afternoon hastily redlining his students' latest offerings while Dean pottered, taking a phone call in the afternoon, and spending an hour consoling a tearful woman recently bereaved and promising he would visit in the next week. When Dean was done, he made his way back to the lounge, and flicked on the tv, ignoring Castiel's work and watching mindlessly, until eventually Castiel conceded that his efforts for the day were done and joined Dean in the opposite armchair. Dean gestured to the game show that was playing and rolled his eyes: "Deal or No Deal is the stupidest game in the history of game shows." Castiel was inclined to agree, but sat happily enough when Dean, in spite of himself, took to yelling suggestions at the television screen and cursed when the contestant failed to follow them – to his ruin.

"Hell. I'm not even psychic." Dean joked, as the contestant picked the $200,000 suitcase Dean had insisted was an absolute "no-go" and his gameplay fell apart from thereon in. When Castiel failed to respond with a genuine enough chortle, Dean's eyes shot to his and he even moved forward a little on his seat to appraise Castiel.

"Cas, you promise you're ok?"

"I'm fine."

Dean pursed his lips in disbelief and sat back in his chair, losing his animated chatter for the rest of the evening.

When it was time to turn in, he flicked off the television, and held his breath for half a minute before eventually turning to Castiel.

"Cas, please be honest with me. Did I do something wrong last night?"

Castiel was reluctant to meet his gaze, and he was right to do so. For the moment his eyes passed Dean's they caught and his heart thudded with fear of discovery. Dean, for his part, seemed immediately devastated by the hitch in Castiel's voice as he answered.

"No."

"_Cas_."

"It's nothing."

Dean gritted his teeth and looked down. At his jaw, a muscle jumped tightly, and Dean swallowed around it as though he might hide it from Castiel's view. With an ashamed hang of his head, he turned away and stared at the empty screen.

"It's just... if I went too far... I'm so sorry. I promise, it wasn't-"

"You didn't."

Dean turned back immediately, disbelief ridden in his features.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm positive."

Dean waited patiently for a reveal of further response, but when none came he merely sighed with only a hint of exasperation, and turned the television set back on.

"Ok."

They watched for two more hours, and Dean fell asleep in front of the TV for a while. Castiel left him to it, until the programming moved to infomercials, and he was forced to rouse Dean in order to take the amenity of his couch bed.

Dean blinked blearily, and grinned sleepily as Castiel pulled him off the couch. "Thanks, nurse."

Rather than force him back into proper waking, Castiel escorted him up the stairs himself, and let Dean fall face first onto his bed. When he moved to the doorway, Dean blinked at him and murmured into his pillow: "You're not gonna stay?"

"I'll let you sleep, Dean. You need rest."

"Hmph."

Dean smacked his lips and nestled into his pillow, and Castiel left him to it. In the lounge, he pulled his shirt off and slipped beneath the couch covers. As with previous nights they were uncomfortable, and it took him some time to get settled. That didn't matter though when he heard Dean's anxious call from the upstairs bedroom.

"Cas! CAS!"

He hurried up the stairs and found Dean hanging off the side of his bed, face in his hands and crying. His spine was curled so far in on itself that it was practically folded in half, and his neck was straining with the effort of holding itself in the unusual position. At Dean's shoulders were a series of scratches – rough and fresh – forming red, irritated mounds on his skin, and his fingers were raking along them aggressively, raking away at a phantom touch that wasn't there.

"Jesus Christ. Help me!"

Castiel crossed the room, searching its corners for a sign of what had distressed Dean. He pulled open cupboards and checked behind the curtains while Dean sobbed lightly, and his breaths grew short and gasping. When he found nothing, he moved quickly back to Dean, pulling his hands from his shoulders and replacing them with his own, rubbing at the skin to attract Dean's attention.

The new touch silenced Dean's gasps almost immediately, and with a groan he slumped forward, drawing in long, pleased breaths, and breathing out in shaky huffs.

"Dean, what happened?"

Dean shook his head and lay back against the pillows, dragging an arm to hide his face.

"Dean?"

"I don't want to talk about it. Please just get over here."

Castiel froze at the end of the bed, as Dean twisted to lie on his stomach, messing his face into his pillow and grunting once. It was too soon for Castiel to make the call, he knew. He'd felt guilty that morning, about relating too closely to Dean when he himself was so afflicted. And the previous minute's events were a shining example of why he ought to have. Dean was shaking still, lightly, but enough that the sheets quivered around him. Even tall and muscular as he was, he seemed weak as he lay upon the bed. Ill. He'd had a heart attack – physical affliction, or none.

Of course, tonight it was Dean in a panic, not Castiel. If he lay beside him and took advantage of that bodily presence, he would be returning the comfort. But he knew that he would take from it too. There had been a reason he hadn't been able to sleep on his own. And Dean was susceptible to him – to find support somewhere. But Castiel would take that from him when the week was up, and he went back to his normal life, and continued to lecture disparaging the paranormal and having coffees with Amelia and dinners with Meg. His world would let him acclimatize to pretending the spirits were not real. But Dean's wouldn't.

Castiel could leave at any time, but Dean could not.

Castiel stood at the end of the bed and stared, until Dean huffed. "Or sleep on the floor. It doesn't matter. Just don't leave this room until dawn. Can you do that?"

Castiel, face burning with shame at Dean's obvious upset, perched himself on the end of Dean's bed and rubbed at his own thighs. Dean rolled over several times behind him on the bed, and each time it stabbed at Castiel's gut. He wanted to clamber into the bed with Dean and wrap himself up in the tentative certainty that had existed the night previously. He wanted to hear the reassuring sound of Dean's huffs against the back of his neck, or the crown of his head, and not think about how he felt like he might be falling apart.

"I thought you said it was ok."

Dean's voice was a little tearful as he muffled it into the pillow.

"It was."

Castiel could hear the sound of saliva in Dean's mouth as he fumbled around ways to ask the question that was plaguing him, but failed to find the words. He adjusted atop Dean's duvet, but didn't move closer.

"Cas..."

Dean rolled again, and then sat up in his bed. Castiel could feel the ghost of his fingers away from the edge of his bare skin, but Dean had enough sense not to touch him.

"I don't understand."

Castiel swallowed labouredly, and ran a hand along the back of his neck. Dean sighed behind him and shifted, sniffling.

"You're... you're not sick. But you have so much to deal with. I can't inflict myself on you, Dean."

"You're not. I'm asking you to be here."

He heard the sound of Dean swinging his head back and forth, and jumped at Dean's tentative touch to his arm.

"I can't rely on your reassurance, and neither of us can help one another."

"_Cas_."

Dean reached forward then, and forcefully tugged on Castiel's arm. He fell backwards helplessly, and Dean immediately lay down beside him, keeping a careful distance and throwing a blanket over Castiel's bare chest. Where he had been terrified before, he was suddenly certain and his voice dropped to a kinder pitch.

"We talked about this already. We're all in this together. We're all gonna die."

"I don't want to."

"Me neither. So what?"

He reached over Castiel to spread the sheets to cover his entire body, and then dropped to his own side, still very careful not to come into direct contact with this skin. They both stared blankly at the ceiling.

"All these rules, and all these worries you have. They don't mean anything. Don't worry about hurting me – now or later. Right now, if you want to lie here and you get something from it, I don't care what it is. Even if we only help each other out for a little, it's still better than nothing right?"

Castiel stayed silent, but he felt a release at his chest and his breathing huffed out. Dean didn't even wince as his fingers, jerking of their own volition, reached beneath the sheet and sought out Dean's. Dean took them with ease, however, and entwined them like they were lovers, squeezing tight.

"In the end all we can do is take care of one another for a little. And hope it goes well. You can't promise me anything, and I can't promise you anything. That's ok though. Just give me whatever you can give now... I mean, if you want to."

Dean didn't seem to mind that Castiel had nothing more to give, and only fell silent, aside from the language of touch as he ran his thumb up and down Dean's knuckle – once, twice. It was strange – to be so proximate and so intimate without romantic intention. But his body settled within it immediately, and pulsed easily. It felt like his blood was caressing underneath his skin, rather than fighting for every solitary breath.

Dean fell asleep quickly, and folded into Castiel without inhibition. Castiel let him, and didn't flinch when Dean nestled his face into the juncture of his neck and shoulder – his lips grazing Castiel's skin every time he smacked them sleepily. By 4am, Dean was drooling on him. And for all the comedic value it would have the next morning, when Dean flushed over his wholemeal toast and couldn't even constrict his voice box enough to stammer out an apology, it was a relief in the heavy darkness of the evening. Dean, fallibly human, the same as he.

Castiel's mind was ill at ease, but having Dean near quieted it a little. Even if it were only for now, that would be enough. And he could think about the next day on the next. On and on until it ended with a whimper.


	12. It spites its maker

**Hi all!**

**I'm so sorry, I feel so utterly terrible that I have been so sporadic with updates in the past month. I'm usually such a stickler for updating on time, since I know it requires some commitment to tune in weekly for a work in progress and I'm so grateful to you all for doing so!**

**A few people were kind enough to check up on me, which is very sweet. You all have no cause to worry, I've just been sick and haven't been able to summon sufficient clarity to open up my laptop. I haven't been able to shake the virus because I've been counting down the days of my notice period and have been slogging to finish everything up in time. The great news is that I will have two months off in which I'm only obliged to read the 25 novels required for my courses next year, so I will have plenty of time for writing, and I am already working on my fic to follow this!**

**Thank you so much for all your kind support, as always! I am continually inspired and delighted by you all :)**

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

_An extract from the unpublished paper of Professor Castiel Novak _(MA Berkeley, PhD Harvard) _regarding his case study of the medium, E _

_Mental illness is as titled – it is disease that can befall any creature with a suitable host. While common parlance is quick to blame the susceptible, that presumption has no grounding in any psychological study._

_If anything, mental illness seeks out its host in the comprehending. Depression and anxiety, for instance, while by no means restricted to one type of host, are adept to find a home in the brain that practices logic, criticism and relentlessly pursues a goal – typically, characteristics connoting success_

_Emmerson, in his book "The New Psychotherapy" has postulated a reason for this – depression and anxiety thrive where the problem-solving mind directs itself to attempting to alter circumstance or natural swings of mood. In attempting to harness the unsolvable, it runs itself ragged and into an inevitable result of failure. Beating itself against this brick wall, it then problematizes itself as the cause, and searches for the rusty cog that inhibits this efficiency. Depression results because the mind is attempting to solve a problem with itself that does not exist, and so come the negative thoughts – failure, useless, hopeless, nothingness._

_Of course, depression is an illness that ought to be corrected. It detrimentally inhibits human experience and suckers its subject. But the battle ground is always persuading the subject that the qualities that propel it so forcefully in other areas are the subject of its undoing. In cognitive therapy, the question is thus: what can the subject be persuaded to let go? Success or recurrence will hinge on the quantifiable answer to this query._

_The circumstance with E is more difficult, however. Accepting, momentarily, that his abilities carry weight, the question is whether he can be persuaded to abandon that part of himself that prompts their capacity (whatever that part may be). _

_Unlike other mental illnesses, it is more difficult to categorically assert that E's burden is universally detrimental. While he himself disavows a wish for it, there are various hooks that seek to retain his commitment – the prospect of helping the aggrieved, and teaching others how to manage the circumstance of death. E, even in moments of his own most individual distress, is quickly distracted by the siren song of usefulness elsewhere. To deprive him of that lifeline would be to force a confrontation that he does not desire. And indeed, for the author, there is concern as to what the content of this confrontation might be – how deep down the rabbit hole might he descend?_

...

Three nights later, the sheets and pillows strewn across the couch in the lounge had been washed, folded and replaced in Dean's hot water cupboard. Castiel did as Dean said, and ignored the usual repercussions of their newfound pattern. He took what he needed from it – sleep and relief – and thought no more of it when he woke up in the mornings, nor the fact that the man that had once been an object of study (and internal derision) at the front of a theatre was now offering a bastion of sanity, with no further motive other than he would be allowed to draw the same from Castiel's proximity.

At 7am, when Castiel would wake, he did so with Dean beside him in varying states of closeness – somewhere between a finger hooked around the seam of Castiel's T-shirt at his waist, to Dean's arms slung around his hips and Dean's chest pressed against his back. Unwilling to disturb Dean, who moved a great deal and woke constantly in the night, Castiel would patiently wait each morning until Dean's eyelids fluttered as he was pulled from REM sleep, and then he would quickly extricate himself from the bed and shuffle downstairs to start on the day's breakfast.

Dean's follow up appointment with the hospital at the end of the week went well, and they were incredulous both at his quick recovery and to find no permanent damage to his heart. Nonetheless, his regimented diet was to continue, along with a gradually more rigorous schedule of exercise. Dean sneered, but he made no protest, and the doctor advised Castiel to "keep an eye on that one".

Castiel phoned the University on the Friday afternoon and informed them that he could return to teaching on Monday. The PhD candidate – Sarah Blake – that had been covering his lecturers sounded ragged on the phone, and actually giggled in relief when he encouraged her to take a few days off the next week as thanks for her assistance.

"Honestly, Castiel, they almost ate me alive."

"I have heard nothing but praise from the faculty" (the faculty having been Meg, who had graciously agreed to sit on Sarah's lectures to ensure she was indeed managing the strain of the role foist upon her). Sarah snorted on the end of the phone, but it was obvious she was pleased.

"You flatter me. I'll see you Monday."

Dean listened in on the conversation, but said nothing about what Castiel's return to the University and his clean bill of health meant for their living arrangement. The implied understanding had presumably been that Castiel would return to his own home. But his partial ownership of Dean's bed had somehow thrown a wrench in those plans. Castiel wasn't certain he would be prepared to sleep alone in his house so soon after the séance, and he doubted Dean would be any more amenable.

The fact of the matter was that Castiel was relieved, after showering and brushing his teeth in the evening, to enter Dean's room each night and find him sitting up in bed – surfing the net on Castiel's laptop or reading a book, brow furrowed – and awaiting his arrival. When Castiel turned over to flick off the lamp beside him, Dean would roll over and press into his back, or wind their fingers together, and kick Castiel's legs aside as he tried to get comfortable (in other words, take up more than his fair share of the mattress). When daylight faded away, and Castiel's mind commenced its nightly dissection cycle of the events during the day a feeling of suffocation would press upon the surface of his ribs, and it was only with the heave of Dean's chest beside him that Castiel could find it within himself to force the feeling away from himself and fall asleep.

He knew, both with common sense and professional judgment – that it was irresponsible not to discuss the eventuality with Dean. He was letting them both buy into the illusion of routine and replacement of the comfort they both had been searching for, and acting as though that was likely to remain indefinite.

Based on Dean's previous words, his assumed position was that the arrangement could go for as long as Castiel desired, on whatever terms he chose. But Dean was comfortable, and he didn't look over his shoulder when he traipsed up the stairs to bed to check Castiel was following him.

Castiel, a fool to reluctance, didn't deserve the twist of circumstance that made the decision for him. On the Sunday morning, Amelia phoned, and with a small and nervous voice, asked if she could, despite her initial refusal, take him upon the offer of using his home "just for a few weeks".

Meg, she explained, as much as she did desire to help, simply did not have the capacity to assist her in terms of space. There was a very realistic possibility that the baby would be born before Amelia could find a home to stay in, or before she could be properly set up in whatever place she did find to live there by herself with all the equipment that was required for a newborn. She needed somewhere that had capacity for the worst case scenario, and goddamnit Castiel's was the only option that did.

"Balthazar said that I could stay in the house as long as I needed, but... I can't do it, James. I just can't."

"Of course, I can be over this afternoon to help with boxes."

When he finished the call, he looked over to where Dean was watching him warily.

"You know," Dean mumbled quietly and with a tinge of pink to his cheeks, "you can stay here as long as you need. Unless you want to... Anyway, the offer's there."

Castiel touched Dean's shoulder on the way out, and Dean shuddered when he spoke: "I need to talk to Amy. I'll stay at least a few more days, if you don't mind."

Meg was only too happy to help for the afternoon in transferring Amelia's things to Castiel's home. He'd downsized from the home that they'd shared together when they were married, but there was still space for many of Amelia's things – even with such a significant amount of baby gear awaiting the arrival of the newborn. However, the cramped circumstance was obvious.

Still, Amelia seemed surprised when Castiel noted the difficulty: "You can leave the boxes in my room, or the spare room, and take the other."

Amelia watched Castiel wearily as he heaved one box into the moving truck, arms resting atop her swollen stomach. "Where will you be?"

"I'll stay at Dean's for a few more days, until we've had the chance to discuss what you'll be doing."

"James, I can't make you leave your own house."

Castiel shook his head, and brushed past Amelia as he made to collect another one of her boxes.

"Dean offered, and he has been feeling unwell. I think a few days additional supervision are required, in any event."

The lie rolled smoothly off his tongue and Amelia only nodded quickly in response, before shuffling to the doorway and leaning back against it, grimacing as she rubbed at her belly. When he was finished cramming the box in to an already full van, he turned back to her, brushing of his hands.

"God, it hurts so much more the second time around."

Castiel squeezed her shoulder and leaned against the door beside her.

"It's not long now, and you'll be so happy when it's done."

"Tell that to my hormones," she grimaced, wiping at her sweating brow and letting her mouth drop open. It was obvious that she was ready for it all to be over, but Castiel knew, as he knew so many things about Amelia, that there was an undercurrent of satisfaction beneath it. She couldn't wait to be a mother again.

It took until 11pm that night to have her properly settled in Castiel's townhouse, and Castiel made them both omelettes on his small element, while Amelia put her feet up on his couch and tried to massage her lower back as best she could in the small gap between the couch and her spine while staring resentfully at the television. When he served her, she shuffled upwards only a little, and balanced the plate on her swollen belly, moaning: "I can barely even see you over the size of myself."

Castiel laughed and caught Amelia's plate as she moved slightly and it threatened to slide down the side of her bump. "Careful there."

She pouted but held her plate more steadily as she worked her way through three offered omelettes, before conceding defeat and lying back on the couch, eyes sliding shut immediately. Castiel quickly loaded his dishwasher as quietly as possible, before helping to pull her off the couch leading her through to his spare bedroom – Amelia had been quick to refuse the main room. At the door, Amelia turned to him, eyes wet, and snuck close to his chest, pressing her cheek against his pectorals.

"What would I have done without you?"

Without thinking, and without consideration, Castiel dropped his chin into her hair, placing a kiss on the crown of her head and breathing in her familiar scent – beneath the new shampoo, and perfume and whatever else had changed in their years apart. Her hands wound up around his back, finding purchase at the muscles above his shoulderblades and rested there lightly.

"You're going to be fine."

"You're more confident than I am."

Castiel sighed and brought one hand up to her head, cradling her skull and worming his fingers through her hair to comb out the tangles. It made his shoulders sag with relief to feel the textures he had once been so familiar with – her hair was still as smooth and fine as ever. Even though it had been years since Claire was born, he remembered the feel of holding Amelia when she was swollen then too, and the soft doughy smell of her skin that was like a tantalizing hint of what to come.

The familiar nostalgic memory of the embrace so many times replicated as she lay across his chest in bed, made Castiel want to pull her closer momentarily, and press more than one kiss into the crown of her head and move his hands across her body, and seek out again all those beautiful spots of skin where he had once known how to make her shudder and wince. He wanted to feel himself inflate, and his lungs to feel full with her. He wanted her curled beside him and feel simultaneously terrified and delighted at her trust in lying with him, to reignite those blackened wicks in his chest that had once lit up with each twist of her lips and quiet murmurs in the early hours of the morning when their bodies had been wound together.

All those desires passed through Castiel in a flash, clouding his vision and holding him momentarily in a magnificent memory. When his eyes opened to the hallway a moment later, the dim lighting was dull and the corridor was cold. Amelia was still grinning lightly in his chest, but the foreignness of their surroundings made clear it could not be the past. He might have been holding her as he once had, but there was so much less in it. Circumstance had changed, and it was irretrievable.

He wanted to comfort Amelia, and have her feel safe. Of course. He wanted to see her radiant and illuminated as she held an infant in her arms again and became that thing that she had always desired above all else, even him. And he wanted to be by her side and count those delicate fingers with her, one by one.

But her nearness was no longer the comfort to him that it had been. His lungs ached, and the light bulb in the lounge was flickering with futile energy to light the area, and his heart was beating out the footsteps to his death in his chest. She was just a body against him. A beautiful, wonderful, worthy of all love body – that he had tried and failed to provide for, and lost.

She knew that. He saw when she pulled away, a relieved smile playing around her lips and her skin swollen and flushed at her cheeks. Her fingers traced down his forearms in a kind of last examination, with the reverence of a funeral.

"I best get to bed. It's a long day of house-hunting in the morning."

"Do you need me to come by before work?"

She smiled lightly and shook her head, dropping her gaze to the floorboards beneath them. "No, no. I'll be fine. I'll phone you."

"Please do." He shuffled once, pressing his hands into the pockets of his trousers. "I better go. Dean will be worrying."

Even though he had escorted her to bed, Amelia followed Castiel back down the corridor of his own home and watched as she slung on his jacket.

"I'll do some shopping tomorrow. Let me know if there is anything you need."

"I can get myself to the grocery store, James."

"Just... saving you some time."

She shook her head and dropped her hands, moving them to trace around her belly lightly. "I'll be fine. You better get back to, Dean. I would hate for something to have happened to him."

Her eyes searched his face for a moment before he nodded quickly and slid out the front door.

Castiel felt blank on the drive back to Dean's home, and there was a sense of finitude in it. He wondered idly how he had fallen into such a circumstance. His pregnant ex-wife in his home, while he wound himself around a man nearly ten years younger than him every night and sighed into his skin. There was understanding in both arrangements, but still, he felt like things might be on the precipice of falling apart. He felt acutely that a reminder of wrongness was waiting behind him, and would catch his attention at the right moment.

Or maybe that was him. And now Claire was gone he was waiting to fall apart. He couldn't remember what it felt like not to hate himself for what he had done. But between Dean and Amelia, he could feel his resentment thawing. It would eventually dissipate, and he was unsure what he would be left with.

Dean answered the door before Castiel had even raised his fist to knock, garbed in his dressing gown but otherwise bare chested. Castiel noted, for the first time, that he had a tattoo on his left pectoral.

"I'd figured you weren't coming back."

Castiel slid into the hall without awaiting a further invitation, and shrugged of his trenchcoat.

"Sorry. Amy had a large number of boxes."

Dean didn't hesitate before reaching for Castiel's wrist, and pulling him lightly up the stairs. He let go of Castiel once they reached the bedroom, and moved to his side of the bed, sliding under the covers and flicking the lamp off. Castiel changed in darkness while Dean's back was turned, and Dean's breathing was already even by the time Castiel slid into bed beside him.

Dean huffed a little as he settled, and shifted, reaching behind him and searching for Castiel's hand. When he found it, he jerked him forward, winding it around his waist and bringing it up to rest at his chest against the bare skin. The position forced Castiel forward, until he was pressed tightly against Dean – breathing out to the knobs of his spine that marked the base of his neck. He held his breath for a moment, before pressing the tip of his nose to the skin, and exhaling carefully. Dean had been holding his breath too, and Castiel's relaxation triggered the release of his own. His fingers clenched around Castiel's slightly, and he shifted once, before sighing more heavily and smacking his lips.

Castiel fell asleep quickly, and without inhibitions. When he awoke, for a moment, it felt like the cavern inside him was illuminated with the hint of dawn, and its periphery, he felt the stone pavings begin to warm.

...

Castiel's students were torn between being pleased to have him back, and distraught. Before Dean's incident, he had issued a class assignment to give a seminar in pairs on their chosen topic. The deadline had fallen after Dean's heart attack, and in his absence, Sarah had assumed the position of grader and had cycled through the first groups quickly. Castiel's return marked his students' worry that they would be more stringently assessed, and it was a matter he was forced to correct almost immediately.

"Sarah has kindly consented to remain with us for the duration of your seminars. I will act as moderator, and provide feedback. But she, for the purposes of this assessment, will be the arbiter of your final grade. I am assured you have all performed well so far, and I am looking forward to seeing your work."

It wasn't that Sarah had been too generous in the large number of 80% plus grades that she had awarded. The projects were generally well-done, and students nervous to present in front of him had tended to overprepare. Most spoke competently, were well-versed in their material, and responded to Sarah and the class' questions with sufficient background knowledge for someone of their level. It should have been a simple matter to finish them off, and one month previously, he might have been ready to be similarly generous to Sarah with marking.

Castiel, however, throughout the duration, found himself becoming aggravated at the simplicity – or, another word, the lack of sophistication – in the hypotheses before him.

To be fair, as always, his students were loathed to argue with him, or perhaps had been converted to his point of view sufficiently before his leave. He knew that his own books were the pre-eminent texts on the subject and had been sympathetic previously to his students reluctance to depart from his views with too great an enthusiasm.

But, for the first time, the fact that the majority repeated ad nauseum his own arguments back at him, using a few unique case studies at best, was supremely irritating to him. For a Stage 3 class, it was basic and unsatisfactory, to see such a lack of critical analyses portrayed.

Sarah, to her credit, was clearly attempting to rectify that. While he knew she – prior to his leave, in any event – had shared a similar academic position, she was clear and persuasive as she put contrary arguments to the students. One group, who had put together a fairly well-researched session on Ouija boards, was subject to particular interest, and Sarah grilled them for their grade:

"I agree that where a tool such as that is used in our typical understanding of the context, it's easy to see how the subject buy-in is created – dim lights, shadows, settling houses... all of which you identified. But what about the use of Ouija boards in groups of friends or dinner parties? Many of the accounts of spiritual experience arise from those kinds of circumstances, where participants are merely curious, not converted."

One student – Gwen – swallowed and answered uncertainly.

"In most of those contexts there is still an instigator – someone who brings the board, for example – and they have the buy-in. I would say their confidence is enough to enfranchise the others."

"But it's not as strong an example is it? In your case, we're talking about professionals who make a living off using this tool – obviously the disk moves because they push it. But at an ordinary dinner party, the instigator doesn't necessarily have that motive. They might genuinely believe it's real. So how to they facilitate the same deception? Why does the disk move?"

Gwen bit her lip and looked to the ground. Sarah, quickly taking pity on her, continued: "The answer is essentially first principles –how the mind can be tricked to conscious action that it's not aware of. What you have to think about is how an instigator might be enfranchised to such an extent that they become a manipulator, and explain that. This is the sort of thing that was covered in the first part of this course – the mind sees what it wants too. If someone wants to believe in the supernatural, they might unconsciously create that circumstance to assuage fears that they'd rather not name."

Sarah lowered her pencil to the table, and scrawled a few notes on her marking sheet, in which she had given the students a B+ already. She turned to Castiel, a nervous smile playing around her lips: "Do you have anything else, Castiel?"

"No. No, that was good." Castiel murmured distractedly, staring at the students in front of him with an inclined head. Gwen flushed a little under his survey, and quickly looked away, until Sarah, with a drawn out "uuum... alright, next group then? Christian Campbell and Ruby Montague."

Gwen and her partner quickly moved out of the tunnel of Castiel's gaze and were replaced by a cocky looking pair, the girl of whom threw a wide grin at Castiel before launching into their presentation.

"The subject of our research was the nature of highway apparitions. To put it simply," Ruby cocked her head, and pulled a strand of hair behind her ear, "these are the 'spirits'" she marked the word with two curled index fingers, "that people on long haul trips, typically at night on back country roads, claim to witness at their side – sometimes as forewarnings of tragedy, and others for nefarious purposes."

Christian stepped forward to take her place. "Accounts of these encounters are scattered throughout the literature, and they make up around 17% of claimed ghost sightings lodged with the Paranormal Association of America. To start you guys off, we have an example of a road which is supposedly 'haunted' by spectral entities."

He leaned forward, opening up a YouTube window set up at the front of the class for the purpose which he intended to put it, and typed in: "Ghost Encounter - Jericho Highway". The group sat through a ten minute documentary excerpt in which three separate drivers described their own visions of a woman in a white dress, wandering aimlessly on the side of the road, who disappeared the moment they stopped to offer assistance.

Castiel leaned back in his chair and watched as Sarah took notes, circling a large number of 8s and 9s on the marking schedule. In the stuffy room, Castiel's ears were ringing lightly, and with the added irritation of being forced to sit through a tedious presentation, he quickly became irritable. By the time Sarah's questioning rolled around, he could feel the heaviness of his own brow as he stared at the students, and shuffled constantly as he struggled to find a comfortable position to sit in. As Sarah rounded off her questioning, and added up her marks: 87, she turned to Castiel with a raised eyebrow: "Do you have any additional feedback, Professor?"

Ruby smirked as she leaned up on her toes to make out the numbers that Sarah had written on both their reports. With a contented wink to Christian, she leaned onto one foot, cocking her hip and smiling in a sultry kind of way.

Castiel leaned forward on the desk, intertwining his own fingers and bouncing his fists on the table. "The first part of your presentation was solid. I certainly do not dispute that a mild hypnotic state can be induced during driving, and that it renders the subject suggestible. I have argued for that position myself previously, as I am sure you are aware."

Ruby nodded, quick to confirm that she had gone beyond the course required reading. Castiel arched and eyebrow and continued, voice low.

"But I don't believe that any psychic or medium or anyone who claims to have had a spiritual experience either, would dispute that. Just because a person witnesses something in a mildly hypnotized state that does not mean it is not real. I think, to the contrary, a medium would tell you that such a state is widening – it allows a person to go beyond the superficial and transcend their immediate realm."

Ruby shifted on her feet in front of him and brought her hand to her hip.

"I absolutely agree, Professor. But that's where first principles come in."

She gave a nod to Sarah, throwing her a smile, to acknowledge her feedback to the previous group.

"The fact that people see 'spirits' on the side of the road is symptomatic of cultural conditioning. Their mind fills the gaps with what it knows and what they expect to see, based on a mix of popular culture, previous accounts and mortality driven panic."

Castiel recognised the triad of reasons from his own book – word for word – and tilted his head further at Ruby, squinting at her.

"Because that is possible, that does not make it so. You are giving a hypothesis, not an explanation. There is no tangible proof to your study."

"Oh no, sir," Christian raised his hand behind her as he hurried back through slides to point out a picture of a large tree, and pointing to the slide behind him to indicate where – at a certain angle in the shadows – it took on the appearance of a hooded figure.

"The eye sees the most obvious explanation – it seeks to make sense of what's around it. And in a less detailed mental state, it doesn't always go to-"

Castiel shook his head and stood up, leaning against the elevated desk behind him.

"That is by no means a guarantee that it is the cause. One of the subjects in your video was a professed atheist. Of course, he may be lying. But the point still stands – just because you are inclined to see something, it doesn't mean that seeing means it must be a figment."

Ruby gaped at him, and her mouth snapped shut when his eyes turned to her. Castiel turned around to the class, adjusting his trenchcoat over his shoulders.

"If all we postulate is an alternative account of explanation, then we are merely playing a game of shifting the burden of proof for who ought to positively establish the existence or non-existence of something."

Christian spoke up behind him.

"The party that is establishing existence should, sir."

Castiel turned on him quickly.

"Why is that? In the case of religion, perhaps you have a point – for religious faith usually goes hand in hand with a doctrine of behavior, and there are plenty of worldwide religions that actively seek for those doctrines to have force of law. _Of course_, in those cases, the circumscription of liberties that would not otherwise be limited by the social contract – especially where many of those who will have their rights circumscribed are non-believers – requires a positive demonstration of their requirement. But-"

He slid out from behind his desk and made his way down the stairs. His vision clouded a little at the edges with the sudden change of posture and the rush of blood to his aching head.

"... seeing a person on the side of the road and postulating that life occurs after death from that... that has none of that moral dimension. So why are we passing the burden of proof?"

"Because there's no scientific evidence-" Christian tried to answer lightly, but Castiel interrupted him.

"Science is the most changeable doctrine of thought in human experience. Only a few hundred years ago, we thought the earth was the centre of the universe. We have no idea whether our universe has a boundary or if there are others, we have only _just _discovered proof of extraterrestrial life... science is a changing face and cannot be treated as gospel any more than gospel can."

He moved to the front of the classroom, talking direct to Ruby and Christian.

"Gullibility and susceptibility, to be frank, is stage one level work. By this level, I would expect a more critical approach to the literature."

"Sir, these are your argument-"

Castiel silenced him with a glare.

"I am studied in this field, but I am not infallible. I expect you to criticize my work as you would any other academics. Academia is premised on the development of ideas. Not lechery."

He turned and gestured to Ruby and Christian.

"Take a seat, please."

The class was utterly silent as Ruby and Christian, heads hanging, returned to their chairs and stared determinedly down at their notebooks. Sarah's own expression was vaguely horrified, though even her gaze snapped away as he turned to look at her.

"What this class is, is a starting point for all of you to learn to think critically. I have given you one point of view, but there are others. And as an academic, or as a practicing psychologist, or in any other field you may find yourself after graduation, your capacity for independent thought will always be your point of difference."

He cleared his throat and moved to loosen his tie, as his vision swam slightly and he felt the slightest bead of sweat pearl on his forehead.

"Skepticism is not the _intelligent _point of view, or the scientific point of view or the academic point of view. It is _a _point of view, and one which I expect you to consider critically."

A vein at his temple twitched and Castiel raised his fingers to it, pausing. There were a few shuffles as the class watched him- noting his odd demeanor, but failing to raise it for fear of being scolded.

"I- Mmm."

Castiel leaned to the side as his vein pulsed again but was followed by an accompanying burst of pain.

"Castiel?"

Sarah moved out uncertainly from behind her desk and crossed the room to lay a hand to his shoulder. He staggered a little to the side, holding his temple in his hands as his vision swam before him. Sarah moved forward quickly, taking his arm and whispering tightly. "Castiel, are you alright?"

He gritted his teeth and murmured to her: "I think I am about to experience a migraine. I need to sit down."

Sarah hurried out from behind him to retrieve a chair and seated him quickly.

"Water? Will that help?"

"Yes. Dismiss the class please." His head throbbed as Sarah moved the microphone. "Class is over now. Can everyone please leave in an orderly fashion?"

There was a stunned silence, before she, with a little more firmness, repeated: "Go."

With a startle and shuffle the students hastily moved to pull out their bags and cram their supplies into them. In their haste to leave, they bunched in the aisles of desks and moved slowly towards the exits. A few curious students peered past him as they moved around the front desks to join the queue, though Ruby and Christian kept their heads down and stalked past him without so much as a look.

Sarah went and stood at the back of the queue, eyeballing any student who was not quick enough to move and crossing her arms in a show of authority. As soon as the last student had left and Sarah had closed the door, she reached into her bag and extracted a water bottle, unscrewing the cap and holding it to Castiel's lips. He took a few quick gulps before leaning back and closing his eyes.

There was no relief in the drink, and he sighed, rubbing at his temples again.

"Castiel, do you need a doctor? I can send for the campus nurse?"

"I'm alright."

He leaned forward slowly, eyes still closed, and buried his temples between his knees, breathing carefully.

"I ought to go home though, I think."

Sarah gave a tight: "oh" and shuffled around so she was kneeling in front of him. "Do you want me to take your lectures for the afternoon? I know it's your first day back, but..."

"Yes, that would be wise. Thank you."

He gave a final sigh and slowly drew himself up to full posture in the seat, rubbing at his temples.

"I'm sorry. I have been under a significant amount of stress."

Sarah nodded understandingly, and offered the water bottle again, which Castiel declined.

"I'll be fine. I just need some quiet."

He gave a slight groan as he attempted to move off the chair, and his legs momentarily refused to cooperate, quaking like they were made of jelly.

"I'll have you... reassess those two... next week. In private. They don't need to go before the class again."

"Sure."

She reached for Castiel's arm as he made to stand, and tripped over his own feet, falling sideways to the desk and grabbing hold of it for support.

"I really think I should call the-"

"There's no need. I just need to go home, and rest. I'll see you tomorrow."

He gestured to his satchel which Sarah moved quickly to retrieve, hunting through it and passing him his mobile phone. With a fumbling thumb, he scrolled quickly through his contacts – arranged in alphabetical order – passing first Amelia, then Meg's names and settling near the base of the list.

Dean picked up after two rings.

"Hey Cas."

"I need a ride. Can you get me from the University?"

Whatever shakiness in his voice Dean detected, it was enough to spur him into action quickly. "Of course, I'll get my coat. See you in twenty."

...

Dean set up Castiel in bed almost as soon as he arrived back at his home, and insisted upon preparing dinner for the evening. The headache did return for some time, and transformed into a migraine quickly – and Dean, anxious perhaps to make up for Castiel's attentiveness to him over the previous weeks, was frantic in shutting curtains, wetting cold flannels for Castiel's forehead and bringing him selections of various painkillers. In the evening, he snuck up into the bedroom and was so quiet in changing that Castiel only detected his presence as he slid into bed beside him. Dean didn't touch him, settling on the pillow – clearly convinced Castiel had fallen asleep, and jolted when Castiel reached out his fingers for him, moving his other hand to remove the wet flannel from his forehead.

Dean's eyes surveyed his face quickly, tracking lines of weariness that Castiel was sure were showing, and sliding closer across the mattress.

"Bad day?"

Castiel grimaced and rubbed his forehead with his palm.

"A few students... irritated me. I might have overreacted."

Dean snickered and folded himself in beside Castiel, raising his head to allow Castiel's arm to slide under his back and stretch out across the mattress. Once he was re-positioned, he dropped his head to the same pillow as the one that housed Castiel.

Castiel wasn't sure at what point the intimacy had slid from sleeping to waking, but he found he didn't mind as Dean rolled around beside him, attempting to find a comfortable point.

"I'd hate to be on your bad side."

"I was rather rude."

Dean swallowed and settled, breathing out in such a heavy sigh that Castiel felt the puff of his breath against his neck. He blinked a few times, and attempted to open his eyes, relieved to see that his eyes were less sensitive to the room – though it was possible that the change from daylight to moonlight had assisted.

"Are you ok with me being here?"

Castiel wound his arm so that his palm rested on Dean's shoulders, completing the question mark shape that his body made as it aligned with Castiel's – Dean took that as a sign of assent, and sighed again, burrowing his nose into the pillow.

"Get some sleep, Cas. You'll feel better tomorrow."

Dean fell asleep quickly, and twenty minutes after his last words he was snoring lightly. Castiel, having been immobile for a large part of the afternoon, was less quick to relax, but he was fairly content to lie awake in the silence of the room.

Dean shifted around half an hour into sleep, rolling away from Castiel, but taking a hand with him, keeping it clutched tight at his chest as he lay on his back and his mouth fell open. Castiel turned and watched him mildly, surveying the slow rise and fall of his chest as he slept soundly. Dean's profile was illuminated at its edge by the whispers of moonlight filtering through the window. Aimlessly, Castiel's eyes traced the line of his nose – straight, although curving a little at the tip, and the swell of his lips which puckered out above a strong, determined chin.

It was a serene picture not seen when Dean was awake, even when he was most relaxed. In it, there was almost a conscious childishness – an attempt to balance the severity of his expression on so many other occasions.

It was calming, to see Dean himself calm and at some measure of peace. It spoke to that deep drive that Castiel had confessed to the first time he had spent the night in his bed. Dean was impotent in sleep, and young. There was no strength or protection or certainty in him. He wasn't scared either, or anxious. He was just in existence – recharging, enduring one of his body's many cycles with biological abandon. He was enduring everything, the same as Castiel, with the same certainty that he would one day cease to endure.

Castiel slid into place beside him, winding his fingers a little tighter around Dean's. Dean shifted in his sleep, but he didn't say anything, although he squeezed back in response to Castiel's adjustment. As shadows wound their tendrils across the ceiling, Castiel closed his eyes and sighed out. In his mind's eye, he replayed the vision of Dean across from him at the séance – Claire's face upon his – and her final farewell through Dean's mouth.

It was an unhappy and a blessed memory at the same time – Claire finally dispelled, finally conceded. But Dean finally revealed properly, for all his good intentions and faithfulness. Dean had been the vessel through which the most remarkable gift had been bestowed – the assurance that his daughter, despite her split skull and ruptured organs, had lived on and remembered more kindness and love than decimation.

Even though Claire was gone, and Dean remained, her presence had changed Castiel's appreciation of the body that lay beyond him. And somehow, in the memory of the flickering candlelight, Dean shone for him, in a new and unusual way.


End file.
